


Fantasy Island

by kedgeree



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fusion, Crack, F/F, F/M, Fantasy Island Fusion, Johnlock Roulette, M/M, Multi, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-12-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 10:44:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 29,644
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4784471
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kedgeree/pseuds/kedgeree
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>On the remote tropical paradise of Fantasy Island, Sherlock Holmes brings his clients’ most desperate fantasies to life…although the end result may not be exactly what they expect. And isn’t it far less boring that way?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Reception

**Author's Note:**

>  
> 
>   
> 
> 
>   
> This is a [Fantasy Island](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Fantasy_Island) fusion for the [Sherlock Fall TV](http://falltvseasonsherlock.tumblr.com/) fusion project.  
> Updating Saturdays! (Characters/Tags updated with each episode.) Tune in for fantasies...!
> 
> * * *
> 
> Episode 1 (Pilot): Sherlock fulfills a couple's wish for their perfect wedding, but a few surprises are in store for wedding party and host alike. GUESTS: Mrs. Turner, the Married Ones

The plane banked left, treating John to an incredible view of a double waterfall sparkling prisms as it cascaded between lush green folds of mountainside.

"Beautiful!" John's seatmate leaned across him to gaze out the little window.

Behind them, a burst of raucous laughter came from the wedding party, who had essentially formed a sort of squashed scrum in the narrow aisle. A hovering flight attendant was looking harried, trying to herd everyone back to their seats for the descent.

"I think you and I are the only ones who've noticed the scenery, Mrs. Turner," John said with a conspiratorial smile.

"Oh, bless, they're so excited." Mrs. Turner cast a fond gaze over her shoulder, focused on the two men currently embracing in the center of the scrum. "So kind of them to invite their poor little old landlady. I do love a wedding."

"So kind of you to invite _me_ , Mrs. Turner," John said for what felt like the hundredth time. "And poor little old landlady, my arse."

Mrs. Turner giggled and gave her cropped silver hair a little fluff. "Well, I needed a plus one, didn't I? Good thing I picked such a charming one. And with my Danny still away in Afghanistan—" The light in her eyes flickered and she shifted her gaze back to the window.

John squeezed her hand.

She patted his leg. "You're a good man, John Watson. A good friend to my boy. You deserve this trip. I know you've had a hard time of it, dear, but you deserve good things."

It was John's turn to look away.

"Maybe you'll even meet someone special at the wedding," Mrs. Turner suggested, cajoling, like the reason John was alone and miserable was that he simply wasn't giving it the proper effort, when the truth was he simply wasn't good for much of anything these days. Or anyone.

"I think you're taking the name of the island a bit too seriously, there," he said, not unkindly.

Mrs. Turner smiled with the smug confidence of the well-intentioned. "We'll see."

 

***

 

The private island's exclusive staff, wrapped in hibiscus-patterned sarongs, welcomed disembarking guests with white smiles, kisses pressed to cheeks, and icy fruit-laden drinks—complete with tiny paper parasols—pressed into hands. The air was hot and humid, but pleasantly so, and smelled of fruit and flowers. A low drumbeat thrummed under the rustling whisper of the palms.

"Oh, John, isn't it all so beautiful," Mrs. Turner exclaimed, hand fluttering to her chest.

John chuckled. "You've been saying that a lot."

"Don't pretend you aren't impressed."

"It's certainly lively."

In addition to the gale-force tropical hospitality greeting them, the newcomers were being hailed by wedding guests who'd arrived on earlier flights, and with a volume and enthusiasm that suggested a great many complimentary mango daiquiris had already been enjoyed.

John offered Mrs. Turner an arm through the chaos, admitting, "And it is beautiful, yes."

"Paul and Ravi must be beside themselves."

John didn't know either of the two grooms beyond Mrs. Turner's brief introduction when they'd boarded the plane. They were dissimilar men at first glance—Ravi, slender, shy, and spectacled, had a neat, professorial look about him while Paul in his torn jeans and faded Clash t-shirt was beefy, bearded, and boisterous—but they looked at one another with the same besotted gaze that left no question they were mad for one another.

John spotted them at the edge of the crowded garden, holding hands, chatting with a long, lean man in a slim-fitting white suit. John blinked. _Beautiful, yes_. The breeze ruffled the man's dark curls and his eyes, Caribbean-clear, shifted directly to John.

John stumbled over the flagstone walkway.

Mrs. Turner caught his elbow, keeping him upright with a surprisingly wiry strength. "Are you all right, dear?"

John clenched his teeth. "I'm fine."

"That was a long flight, wasn't it? We'll settle in and then you can rest your leg."

John bit back a snappish reply, because he was _fine_ , and jerked his head in Paul and Ravi's direction. "Who is that?"

"Who…?" Mrs. Turner craned her neck, then laughed. "You don't mean _Sherlock_ , do you?"

John frowned. "The owner?"

"Our host! Sherlock Holmes. I've read _all_ about him. _Very_ mysterious. The wonders he works on this island, the stories I've heard. They say he has _powers_."

"These stories didn't come from your tabloids, by any chance?"

"Never you mind where they came from. That does mean they aren't true. That man is a magician."

"He does dress like one."

"I think he's very handsome!"

"Hm," John said, careful not to look back.

 

***

 

"I pledge to you my honor, my faith, and my love."

It was big Paul's voice that was soft and shaky, thick with emotion. Ravi had delivered his vows in a clear, unwavering tone, eyes shining with conviction. They made a handsome pair, Ravi in a classic black tuxedo and Paul in a blue and grey tartan kilt.

John couldn't help but smile.

"I see you're a romantic, Doctor Watson."

John's head whipped around at the deep and rather disappointed voice in his ear and he found himself almost nose-to-nose with Sherlock Holmes, who had apparently slid silently into the seat next to him.

Sherlock's eyes were just as startling several inches away as they had been from yards away. Okay, probably more.

"It's a lovely ceremony," John said, keeping his own voice politely low, although Sherlock hadn't bothered. They were in the back row, at least. John had thought it best to leave the closer seats to friends and family.

"Dull."

"I…excuse me?"

"Dull," Sherlock repeated a little more crisply.

A woman in the row in front of them glanced over her shoulder, frowning a bit. Sherlock gave her a ludicrously simpering smile.

"I'm dull?" John whispered, irritation edging into his tone. "Or the ceremony is dull?"

Sherlock flickered him a considering look. "I was in this particular instance referring to the ceremony."

"But you did this." John waved a hand at flower garlands and ivory chiffon draping.

"It's what they wanted."

"Oh. So you just followed instructions."

"No."

John shook his head, confused. "You didn't follow their instructions."

"There were no instructions. I don't take instructions. They simply asked for the perfect wedding."

Paul's hand shook as he fumblingly retrieved a gold ring from his sporran and slid it onto Ravi's finger. "I give you this ring, as a symbol of my commitment and enduring devotion."

"Well," John said, "you seem to have provided that."

"As I said. Boring." Sherlock brushed a fleck of absolutely nothing from the crease in his white trousers as his attention started to drift away from John.

"My friend thinks you're a magician," John blurted.

Sherlock's eyes, cool and amused, shifted back to John. "Ah, yes. Science can seem like magic to a primitive mind."

"Primitive?" John frowned at the arrogant curve of Sherlock's mouth. "You're calling my friend primitive?"

"It's astonishingly simple to read what people want." Sherlock looked John up and down and smiled again, like he'd just learned everything about John he'd ever need to know. "You're all so transparent."

John flushed.

At the front of the lawn, Ravi and Paul leaned in for a kiss. The officiant beamed and shouted over the rising cheers of approval, "May your days be filled with joy!"

The guests leapt to their feet, applauding thunderously.

When John looked around again, he was alone.

 

***

 

John was headed back to his bungalow when he heard the scuffle just off the path, and of course he didn't hesitate.

There were four of them. Well, three, if you didn't count the one who had apparently passed out while pissing on the bougainvillea trellis. Sherlock, sporting a livid red mark on one cheekbone, had the tall one in the powder blue suit in a choke hold. The ruddy-cheeked blond was too busy reeling with laughter to present much of a threat, so John went for the wiry one aiming himself at Sherlock's blind side. John buckled his leg with a kick to the back of one knee and took him down with a jab to the nose as he reeled, careful to pull his punch enough to avoid doing any significant damage. This was his only suit, after all—shabby as it was, he didn't want blood on it.

Powder Blue slid to the ground with a sigh in front of Sherlock as though he'd simply decided to have a nice little sleep in the grass.

John sniffed and swiped at his nose with the back of one hand, waving at the prone revelers with the other. "Were they so transparent you didn't see them coming, then?"

Sherlock scowled. "There may have been a…slight miscalculation regarding the inebriation timetable."

Laughing Boy had subsided into hiccuping giggles and taken a seat in a truly unfortunate spot next to the bougainvillea.

"You're a party planner and you don't know how much people like to drink at weddings?"

Sherlock frowned at him. "Party planner?"

"Don't you have security around this place?"

" _Party planner?_ "

"Assistants?" John toed at Wiry, who groaned. "Medical staff?"

"I fulfill fantasies. Fantasies all you vacant idiots don't even realize you have. Fantasies I am the _only one in the world_ who is able to reliably deduce. I provide a psychologically and logistically complex set of services resulting in life-altering experiences. I am not a _party planner_."

"All right, then. You're _not_ a party planner. " John pursed his lips and eyed Laughing Boy's tipped champagne flute and tangled lei.

"Yes, fine. This particular fantasy did technically involve a party."

John grinned.

Sherlock glared at him. "Shut up."

John grinned all the wider.

Voices rose nearby, just around the curve in the pathway.

"Oh...bugger." Sherlock's eyes flashed, ever-so-briefly, with dismay and he started simultaneously dragging fingers through his disheveled hair and scrubbing at a green smear on the sleeve of his white jacket.

John hid a chuckle, turned, and walked toward the voices, raising his. "Believe me, you do not want to come this way! Someone had a bit too much piña colada and roast pork, if you know what I mean."

A young woman in pink wrinkled her nose at him and said, "Ew," but she pulled her companion away by the elbow toward an alternate path.

Sherlock's head was bent over his mobile when John returned, his thumbs a blur of motion on the keypad, issuing instructions for staff to collect the unfortunate guests at his feet, John presumed.

John hesitated, hovering.

"Well, I'll just…leave you to it," he finally said.

He hesitated some more. Sherlock didn't look up from his mobile.

"Okay, then," John nodded, turning away.

"John?"

"Yes?"

Sherlock spared him the briefest of glances. "Thank you."

"My pleasure," John said, and was a little surprised to realize he actually meant it.

 

***

 

The reception was apparently to be an all-night affair, judging by the noise still coming from the main grounds. Curious, and feeling like stretching his legs, John left his murder mystery cracked open on the bungalow porch swing and excused himself to Mrs. Turner, who waved him away with a mellow smile.

The music, a sort of hip-hop/island fusion, heavy on the throbbing drums, was louder as John emerged from the tree-covered pathway to the reception area. Multi-colored lights were strung amongst the trees and torchlight flickered closer to the ground, but the grounds were almost empty of people, except for—John smirked—a fair number of athletic-looking men and women with two-way radios and staff shirts patrolling the perimeters.

A dance floor, dining tables, fire pit, and a thatch-roofed outdoor bar all showed signs of heavy use, but aside from a few lingering drinkers and dark-corner nuzzlers, no one was around.

Still, John heard voices. Or…not voices, exactly.

Moaning.

Which is when he turned around to find Sherlock standing directly behind him, grave-faced and once again impeccably-groomed.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson."

"It was John earlier, wasn't it?"

"Good evening, John."

"Er…where is everyone?"

Sherlock inclined his head in the direction of the pool. "I expect they're at the orgy."

"Oh, right." John blinked. "Wait, the what?"

Sherlock's brow crinkled. "You're familiar with the concept."

"Of course I'm familiar with the—are you saying there's an orgy?"

"Yes."

"Happening? Right now?"

"Yes."

"In…the pool?"

"It's been re-purposed for the evening's entertainment."

John moved cautiously towards the…yes, those were most definitely sex sounds…until he could see…everything. Absolutely…everything. Every single bit and bob of everything. The pool, empty of water and filled with cushions and towels and a…creative variety of toys…writhed with slick bodies. At the center, on a raised platform for all to see, Ravi and Paul had a place of honor. And they were making enthusiastic use of it.

"Is that…?"

"Mm, yes, a lubricant fountain," Sherlock provided.

"Of course."

Sherlock pointed. "And the slides, slicked. The diving board, for obvious reasons, is off limits."

"Right. Obvious reasons." Realizing he was staring open-mouthed, John tried to look away, but he wasn't sure where to look. Not at Sherlock. Definitely not at Sherlock. He fixed his eyes on a nearby banana tree, then frowned and hastily looked away from that as well.

"And this…this is what Paul and Ravi asked for?"

"No. But it's what they wanted. Their true fantasy."

"They…certainly don't seem to object." He felt keenly aware of how close Sherlock was standing, curls ruffled once again by the jasmine-scented breeze, except this time under moonlight. Sherlock's hands, John noted, were quite large. Long-fingered. 

"You'll be wanting to join in."

"Me?" John's voice came out a bit more high pitched than he'd intended.

"You are a wedding guest," Sherlock said neutrally.

"No. Er…no. I prefer my intimacy a bit more…intimate. Thanks. I mean, not _thanks_ like you were…offering…" John cleared his throat. "But don't let me, you know, keep you, if…"

Sherlock gave him a disdainful look. "The conductor does not wade into the pit."

"Right." John swallowed down a nervous giggle. "So…are they always like this? The fantasies?"

"Like what?"

"Well. You know."  He shifted against the growing tightness of his trousers, eyes drifting helplessly toward the dais. "Sexual."

"Sometimes." Sherlock gave him an odd, searching look. "Problem?"

"No." John shifted again as a particularly extended moan drifted up from the pool. There was just so much…movement. Rolling and grinding and sloppy slapping sounds and… _fuck_. He needed to get out of here right now. "No problem. It's all fine. But I do think I'll just…be going."

Sherlock's gaze flicked down John's body, taking in his awkward, arousal-hiding stance. He lifted an eyebrow.

"Good night, then, John." And then he _winked_. "And welcome to Fantasy Island."

 

***

 

"You're quite sure I didn't miss anything last night, John?"

"Not a thing, Mrs. Turner," John reassured her as he handed their bags over to the porter.

"Everyone looks so relaxed," she sighed, looking around approvingly at the other departing guests. "I wish we could stay longer. Oh, there's Ravi!"

She called out and Ravi turned and waved, detaching himself from Paul to come over and give her a hug.

"You look very happy, my dear," Mrs. Turner patted his cheek.

"It was _brilliant_ ," he said, bright-eyed. "Everything was absolutely  _perfect_."

John raised his eyebrows. "So you were…pleased with Sherlock's," he glanced cautiously at Mrs. Turner, "enhancements to the reception."

"We knew we wanted to share our love," Ravi grinned, cheeks flushing a bit, "but we didn't realize how badly we wanted to _share our love_. Sherlock Holmes is a _genius_. We wanted to thank him in person, but," he looked around and shrugged. Sherlock was notably absent.

Mrs. Turner frowned curiously after Ravi as he dashed off to enthuse at another departing guest. "What was that about?"

"Oh, just…wedding stuff," John said blithely. "Probably."

"Hm."

"Doctor Watson?" A young man in one of the island's trademark sarongs appeared at John's side. "Mr. Holmes requests a moment of your time, if you please, in his offices at the cottage."

Mrs. Turner's eyebrows shot up. "And what's _this_ about?"

"I…I have no idea. Is there a problem?"

"If you'll follow me, sir?"

"Er. All right. Why not?"

The "cottage" turned out to be an enormous and ornate, white-painted, red-trimmed, rambling Queen Anne style villa with a tall bell tower jutting up near the center. Inside Sherlock's private offices, however, the island aesthetic fell away, replaced by an actually slightly shabby, completely disorganized, cluttered and curiously homey space. Sherlock was sat in a modern leather desk chair, which he turned to face John as John walked in. Sherlock's island aesthetic had fallen away, too. He was wearing a simple, fitted, plum-colored button-up, not a trace of white. He rested his elbows on his desk and tented his fingers in front of his chin.

"John."

"Looking for someone to sacrifice to the volcano?"

Sherlock frowned at him. Whether it was for speaking out of turn or for his admittedly feeble attempt at humor, John wasn't sure. "There is no volcano."

"Then what can I do for you?"

"John." Sherlock repeated, as though his name was an important opening line. "As you are aware, my work is deducing and fulfilling fantasies."

"I've just seen Ravi. He seemed to be a quite…satisfied client."

"Of course he is," Sherlock brushed the interruption aside. "I've already explained—I _know_ what people want. Which is precisely why I've called you here this morning."

"Sorry?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, looking smug. "Because I know what it is _you_ want."

John flinched, thinking immediately of his every stray glance at Sherlock's mouth, his hands, his beautifully-fitted trousers. "But I didn't come here for a fantasy."

"No. You came here to escape London, where you are having difficulty fitting in and finding occupation after your release from the army, particularly as you were invalided out. You are not close enough with your family to turn to them for support. You are without friends as well, excepting Mrs. Turner, as you don't make friends easily and have left the few you had in…was it Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan," John murmured, eyes narrowing.

"Have left the few you had in Afghanistan behind. Your injuries, both physical and psychosomatic, along with the tedious sympathetic expressions you are subjected to on a daily basis have eroded your confidence. Your army pension is inadequate to maintain a life in London without immediate supplement. In short, you are at a personal, functional, and financial loss with very little to return to in London." Sherlock paused for a breath and looked at John, waiting, perked up like he was expecting a pat on the head or a saucer of milk. "Am I right?"

"Yes. Well done. Correct on all counts. And ta very much for that display of skill, but it really wasn't necessary." John leaned in and lowered his voice. His face had gone tight during Sherlock's speech. "I was actually already impressed by what you can do."

"You were?"

"But you got one thing wrong."

"There's always something…"

"Hearing all that out loud was _not_ actually my dream come true," John snapped. "If that's what you think I wanted, you got it _wrong_."

Sherlock's face fell. "Oh. I have to spell it out, then."

"Spell what out?"

"John, I find my staff in need of fortification with a particular combination of medical and security skills. Skills you happen to possess."

John squinted at him and said, very slowly, "You don't mean…"

"Obviously, I do." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I'm offering you a job."

"A job."

"Yes."

"A job. Here on this island."

"I need an assistant." Sherlock sighed, a quick, impatient gust of breath. "You _are_ a doctor."

John squared his shoulders. "And a soldier."

"And you're good."

"Very good."

"That confirmation, incidentally, really wasn't necessary." Sherlock smirked. "I was actually already impressed by what you can do."

John stared.

Sherlock shook his head as though John was being remarkably obtuse. "So that's settled. You'll accept the position."

He would be out of his mind to accept. Sherlock Holmes was an overly-dramatic, vain, obnoxious, petulant, plush-mouthed madman. Beyond that, John didn't know a thing about him, what he really did here on this island of his—was it even his island?—or what he might ask of John under the terms of this employment. There had been no mention of compensation. He didn't know how he would live. And it hadn't escaped his notice that Sherlock hadn't actually _asked_ if he would take the job. He would be _completely_ out of his mind to accept this position.

John's smile bloomed. "Oh, god, yes."


	2. Life Imitates Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An art gallery owner comes to Sherlock with the dream of unveiling the lost work of a great master. John gets his first glimpse of how things on the island are run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Our broadcast signal was weak overseas, but we are back from our short post-pilot hiatus, with new episodes weekly!

"So." John adjusted his new white blazer as he took what he hoped was his expected place at Sherlock's side in the reception garden. He was bristling with curiosity. First real day on the job. First real day behind the scenes. He was eager for details, eager to prove his worth. "How does this all work?"

Sherlock's gaze wandered along the far side of the placid, palm-shaded lagoon before them, waiting. "Client arrives. Fantasy. I amaze everyone by demonstrating basic powers of observation and deduction."

"And…?"

"And then the client leaves."

"Ah, cheers. That clears everything up."

"Good."

"A fine demonstration of your amazing powers of clarification and expression."

Sherlock turned a suspicious frown on him. The morning light struck green glints in his eyes.

John leaned in and murmured, "Sarcasm."

"Yes," one of Sherlock's eyebrows quirked up, "I deduced as much."

"I _was_ hoping you might go a little deeper, Sherlock. If I'm to be of, you know, service in this job it would help to know what you actually need me to—"

"Sir!" called a bronzed young man from across the garden. "Sir, the plane!"

A bright, puffy little yellow and white twin-engine plane appeared around a break of trees at the edge of the lagoon, splashing and puttering its way across the clear water.

"Places, everyone." Sherlock waved an imperious hand, and the milling staff fell immediately into their positions. Steel drums commenced a soft rhythm and a row of dancers began to sway in time. Trays of fruit and bright, icy drinks were readied.

"I guess I'll wait a bit longer on that job description, then," John said, folding his hands casually in front of him in an imitation of Sherlock's pose. He leaned in again and pitched his voice low. "Should I be calling you 'sir,' by the way?"

"He'd like nothing better, dear, I'm sure," said a merry voice from behind John. He turned to a petite woman, roughly the age his own mum would have been by now, with short red-blonde hair. She wore a conservative blue suit instead of white, and her blouse was purple with a big, soft bow tied at her throat. Her smile was cheerful. "But I wouldn't cede that ground if I were you."

John started and blushed, feeling caught out, although he certainly hadn't _intended_ the question to sound at all…suggestive. "Oh. Hello."

Sherlock, who had fixed John with a puzzled stare, cleared his throat. "John, Mrs. Hudson." He presented the lady with a flourish, as if she were a game show prize. "Since you ask so persistently, behold. Mrs. Hudson is the start of _how this all works._ "

"Oh. Well, it's very nice to meet you, Mrs. Hudson." John glanced back and forth between them. "And…what do you do here?"

"Mrs. Hudson presents me with the tedious requests and troubles of the island's potential clients."

"And he picks the most interesting ones," Mrs. Hudson smiled up at Sherlock fondly.

"The least tedious ones. I deduce their _true_ fantasies, make all the necessary arrangements, and the rest is as I have already described to you, John."

Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat.

Sherlock sniffed haughtily. "Technically, Mrs. Hudson makes most of the actual arrangements."

"How do you like your bungalow, Dr. Watson?" she smiled. "All settled in?"

"It's lovely, Mrs. Hudson, thank you. I take it that was one of the arrangements _you_ made?"

"Under my direction, of course," Sherlock said, brow furrowed.

"Oh, you're very welcome, dear. That suit is a smart fit, too," Mrs. Hudson nodded approval.

"Yeah?" John twisted a little, looking himself over. "Not too…I don't know…waiter? Cruise director?"

Sherlock frowned down at his own suit.

"You look very handsome, Dr. Watson. A proper," she glanced at Sherlock, "colleague for our Sherlock."

The plane rumbled up to the narrow, flower-festooned gangplank connecting the lagoon to the garden and cut its engines.

"It's 'John,' please." He liked Mrs. Hudson already. She reminded him a bit of Mrs. Turner. An alarming thought occurred as he pictured Mrs. Turner at Paul and Ravi's wedding reception. "Most of the arrangements? Including, the, erm…"

"Orgy, dear."

John gave Sherlock a pained look. "Really?"

"Oh, don't blame him, John. He actually needed quite a bit of help envisioning what exactly went on—"

"Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock snapped, then cleared his throat. "Our client is arriving."

A tall, grim-faced woman had disembarked from the plane, making her way along the gangplank in a severe black leather pencil skirt and five-inch red-soled heels.

"Is there anything in particular I should do?" John asked, _sotto voce_.

"Smile, John! We want our guest to feel welcome!" Sherlock gave a sort of salute in the direction of the lagoon and fluttered his lashes as he broke out a pineapple-sweet smile. "Miss Wenclesas. Welcome to Fantasy Island."

"It's _Wenceslas_ ," Mrs. Hudson whispered.

"Whatever."

 

***

 

Radka Wenceslas flicked a disgusted glance at the row of welcoming sarongs as she strode past them toward three more formally-dressed people waiting on the lawn in front of a tiered circular fountain. The David-haired chiaroscuro who had called to her had to be her host. She didn't know who the little palette knife-painted war pony beside him was, or the watercolor woman, but then they hardly mattered. She was here to see Sherlock Holmes. She was here for business.

Holmes greeted her with a benign smile. "I hope your journey was comfortable, Miss Wenceslas."

"It was long. Let us skip the pleasantries, Mr. Holmes. Can you deliver on your promise?"

Holmes turned to his companion instead of answering her. "Miss Radka Wenceslas, John. Owner of the Hickman Gallery in London. The _failing_ Hickman Gallery. Her fantasy is to discover the lost work of a great master. Supposedly to revive her business, but I suspect she is also at least considering the escape from it the cash from a sale would offer."

Radka hissed her disapproval. "Still your tongue in front of these _people_ , Holmes. This is a _private_ matter."

Holmes's pony glanced at him a little uncertainly before he addressed Radka directly. He had, the art curator in her could not help noticing, Prussian blue eyes. "Don't worry about that, Miss Wenceslas. You're among…friends…here. Professionals."

"I would introduce you to your new friends, of course, but since we're skipping the pleasantries…" Holmes's smile was sharper this time. He gestured so politely as to seem mocking past the fountain toward a path through the tall palms. "This way, Miss Wenceslas. I'll take you to your forger."

 

***

 

"Oi! Down from there!" Holmes's Prussian-eyed assistant shouted, surging into motion as they rounded the corner into a little enclave of poorly maintained buildings made of concrete, brick, and steel instead of bamboo and palm leaves. He took the cross-bar of the scaffolding nestled against a white-painted wall in one quick, determined step up and caught the man clinging to one of the vertical bars by the back of his t-shirt collar. A can of spray paint rolled into the sandy soil at the base of the building, a former church from the look of it, pristine but for a slash of black paint beside one arched window.

The vandal, a mousy-haired young man with baggy denims hanging off his narrow hips, flashed a cheeky grin at all of them.

His captor shoved him toward Holmes. "What do you want me to do with this one, Sherlock?"

"Hello, Raz. Decorating again?"

"You left me such a nice canvas. This her, then?" the young man…Raz…jerked his head at Radka, looking her up and down.

"Miss Wenceslas," Holmes said, "may I present your artist."

Holmes's assistant blinked, looking confused. "What? Him?"

"John, you can let him go."

Raz tugged his shirt back into place, unfazed by the rough handling, and thrust out a hand to Radka. "'Ere, love."

Radka gaped, then turned sharply to Holmes. "You _must_ be joking."

"I assure you I am not."

She could feel the muscles at the back of her neck clenching. "What I've asked for requires the work of a _master._ It will need to fool _anyone_. The brush work must be _immaculate_. And you present me with this…this…" she gestured at Raz, at a loss for a word that sufficiently expressed her outrage.

Raz stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets. "Vermeer, innit?"

"You think _you_ can reproduce a _Vermeer_ ," she all but spat at him.

"'Course I can." Raz grinned cheerfully. "I don't know hardly much, you're thinking, I can see. But I do know art."

Radka frowned. She should turn on her heel this very moment and walk away from this absurd farce. But there was something…that cocky look. He wasn't afraid of her, and a young man like him absolutely _should_ be afraid of a woman like her. Radka Wenceslas was intimidating. She made certain of it. She was tall and sharp and strong and she made the most of it. Her lipstick matched her red-soled pumps, and the necklines of her fitted black dresses did not hide the scars near the base of her throat. All of it she had earned.

She glared at him. "You will show me."

"See that one, with the red door?" Raz pointed down the street. "That's my studio. Come tonight."

"Very well," she agreed reluctantly.

"You'll see," Raz nodded. "I'm your man."

"Well!" Holmes clapped his hands together. "Now that's settled I'll have someone show you to your quarters, Miss Wenceslas."

Radka paused before she followed, turning back toward the church.  Her eyes lingered, troubled, on the scaffolding for a long moment before she walked away.

 

***

 

Together they darted down narrow, cobbled streets in the tricky light of sunset, past glimpses of the Soviet tanks in the Town Square, past the cold-eyed soldiers, and scrambled up the scaffolding, small and agile as rats--Mikolas, slight and pale, and Radka, already tall for her age, a stringy girl with stringy brown hair.  They'd marked the window so they wouldn't forget the right one. They shimmied over the sill and into the third story gallery of Kinský Palace.

Inside, they lay side-by-side on the floor, Radka's head by Mikolas' feet, the stone cool through her summer-thin cotton dress. Mikolas chipped away at one grey tile with his flimsy pocket knife, scratching his initials. "This place is _ours_ ," he declared proudly. There were dark smudges under his eyes.

Radka looked up instead of down, looked at the paintings, the sculptures, the vases. Fruit and flowers, waterfalls and forests, dogs and dragons, silky falls of fabric and bared breasts. This was theirs. It was hers, all the wide world of freedom in this room, and the shouts of the protestors in the Square sounded much farther away. She touched the dirty sole of Mikolas' shoe with one fingertip. He was hers, too.

Radka's father took her away from Prague, away from soldiers, and away from Mikolas the next week.

 

***

 

She was appalled, considering the money she had laid out for this request, that this purportedly _luxury_ resort tolerated such a sketchy, ill-maintained collection of structures on its property. But of course this _forger_ would call such a dismal area his place of business. At least in the near-dark she was saved the details of the filth she might have seen in better light.

Radka's lip curled as she stepped up to the studio and, rapping the red door with one of her heavy gold rings, called Raz's name.

The Vermeer had best be brilliant or she would have Holmes's head on a platter and call it her new exhibit. Bring people in to the gallery, sell it for the money, it hardly mattered any more. Art was business, not some foolish childhood…she frowned… _fantasy_.

A whimsical, little nude figure of a man had been painted on the brick next to the base of the door, where a sliver of light from within lit the cheeky leer in his green eyes. Like he knew something. Something about her. Radka bit the inside of her lip.

"In 'ere, miss," echoed from inside.

Radka opened the door of Raz's studio and walked into another world. Her breath rushed out in awe.

"It's over here," Raz was wiping paint off one hand with a dirty rag, "the painting, I started—"

"Shh!"

It was awkward in her slim skirt, but Radka knelt and then lay down on her back on the cool floor, stretching her legs out in front of her. She kicked off her shoes and sighed, transported.

There was color everywhere, painted on the walls, the floor, the ceiling, the furniture, bright and bold, jagged lines and sensuous curves. There were landscapes and figures and clouds and eyes. It was Prague, all spires and spikes. It was London in the rain. It was a tropical island, flamboyant and lush. It was tanks and war and anger. It was peace in the parks and the sky. It was passion. It was life. Dogs and dragons.

After a moment, Raz sat down beside her, watching her. He looked like he actually understood what she was doing, there on the floor.

"It's exquisite," she breathed. Her eyes were caught by the figure of a woman, her silhouette dark and sleek, arched between two tall starlit windows. She had red-soled shoes. The paint still gleamed wet. "My God. Is that supposed to be me? You painted me?"

"I told you," bold as a rat, Raz leaned over and ran a thumb across her cheekbone, like he was making a tally mark. Like war paint. "I know art."

 

***

 

John was getting restless.  He'd seen nothing of Sherlock since Miss Wenceslas's arrival on the island the day before and he still didn't know what he was meant to be _doing_.

He could only organize his new living space so much, given that he owned next to nothing apart from the new suit that had been waiting for him when he moved in. (He'd now thanked Mrs. Hudson, who made a point of noting that Sherlock had given her John's measurements for the tailor with remarkable accuracy.)

He'd taken a few uneventful walks around parts of the island, considering them patrols and probably in line with his still unspecified duties. The leg of his patrol that had taken him past Raz's studio had been particularly quiet. The windows were shuttered and John could only assume Raz was hard at work on the Vermeer for Miss Wenceslas.

So John's excitement level pulsed when, just after his morning tea, he received a text from Sherlock to meet him once again at the island's reception garden. New guests, perhaps. Or a _situation_ that required his intervention, even.

Sherlock was waiting on the lawn, slim and neat in his white suit, and he turned and smiled as John approached. John swallowed down the breath that caught in his throat. Really, those curls shouldn't be allowed exposure to golden morning sunlight or gentle breezes. It wasn't really fair.

The cheerful little yellow and white plane was waiting in the lagoon, door open to the gangway. A few staffers lingered nearby to offer refreshment or assistance.

"Is it Miss Wenceslas leaving, then? Painting all finished?"

"Mm," Sherlock hummed vague acknowledgment.

"Mrs. Hudson said you didn't usually farewell the guests."

"I don't."

John glanced at Sherlock's profile. He had turned his attention back to the still lagoon, but a smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Why?"

"Because I'm finished with them."

"Okay. Something different about this time?"

Sherlock met John's questioning gaze. There was a spark of anticipation in his eyes. "Here she is now."

Radka Wenceslas's heels clicked on the walkway circling the fountain. Behind her, in worn trainers, Raz followed. He was burdened with luggage like a little pack mule, and wore his ever-present cheeky grin. Radka snapped her fingers at him. "Come along."

"Miss Wenceslas!" Sherlock said grandly. "I take it you're satisfied with you Vermeer?"

Radka dismissively slashed a heavily be-ringed hand through the air. "Never mind that. I have discovered something far better. I fear, Mr. Holmes, I will be taking your artist instead." A muticolored paint smudge peeked out from the scooped neckline of her black blouse. There was a distinct blue thumbprint on her collar bone.

John did his best not to let his eyebrows fly up when Raz, whose fingertips were stained blue, winked at him.

"Yeah, right, we're opening like a new show, innit?" he beamed. "Art by yours truly."

"Yes. Something _new_." Radka's eyes went distant and fierce, staring off into the blue sky. "What art should be. Something _alive_. It will be outside, for everyone, for _us_ , not hidden away. We will turn the palace inside out," she whispered, then blinked herself back to the present. She gave Raz a sharp nod in the direction of the plane. "Suitcases."

Raz shuffled off obediently toward the gangplank with a suitcase in each arm.

Radka watched as he walked away, and when she looked back at Sherlock her expression changed. She looked almost reverent. "How did you know?" she whispered.

"It's what I do." Sherlock lift his chin regally. "Goodbye, Miss Wenceslas."

As the plane took off, Sherlock turned to John, looking expectant.

John blinked at him. "What…just happened there?"

Sherlock bounced on the balls of his feet a little, eyes shining. "What do you think?"

"You knew they'd…get together. Somehow. Change her plans for her gallery. And…and give Raz a place to show his art."

Sherlock smiled, smug as could be. "Sometimes unlikely partners are the best matched. It's not a difficult calculation when one knows the correct formula."

"How _did_ you know?"

"I studied Miss Wenceslas's personal history. Deduced her aesthetic, philosophical, and sexual preferences. And reminded her of them. Simple, really."

"Right. Simple. And two people's lives changed." John huffed a wondering laugh. "So this would be the part of the process where everyone is amazed by your powers of observation and deduction."

"I seldom contradict accurate, fact-based conclusions."

John looked around the mostly-empty garden. "Except _everyone_ in this case is…just me."

Sherlock shrugged, sighing, "Yes, sometimes one has to make do."

John didn't return the taunt, because a slow smile of realization was spreading over his face.

He had just figured out something about his enigmatic employer, and he was _delighted_. He wasn't so bad at observation and deduction himself, now was he? And he'd only needed to witness two fantasies to see it. First, Paul and Ravi's wedding and reception, and now Radka and Raz's new relationship.

So _that_ was why Sherlock did what he did. John wasn't fooled by this talk of calculations and formulae. Sherlock Holmes was exactly what he had mockingly accused John of being at the wedding: Sherlock Holmes was a _romantic_.

 


	3. The Dating Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A single woman comes to Fantasy Island looking for love. Sherlock gives John a special assignment.  
> Guest starring: Janine Hawkins

"You did say you wanted to be useful," Sherlock pointed out, like _he_ was the one being sensible.

"Well, I didn't mean _this_." John scowled and gestured to the garish, pink-and-purple lit stage. Beyond the lights, an audience of shadowy faces murmured anticipation.

"You already know _I_ can't do it."

"Do I know that? You haven't actually said _why_ you can't do it."

"John."

John was starting to notice that the more manipulative Sherlock was about to be, the more likely his sentences were to start with John's name. Just because it tended to _work_ didn't mean John didn't _notice._

And there it was, the perfect touch of woe in the eyes. "John, I need your help."

"What about Mrs. Hudson?"

"She has other business," Sherlock waved a hand in the air, as though that explained something. "And besides, you already have the perfect suit for the occasion."

"Great. Cruise director and now game show host."

"It's not a _game_ show," corrected Sherlock quickly. "It's a _dating_ show."

"How am I supposed to know how to host a _dating_ show, Sherlock?"

"I had the impression from Mrs. Hudson you were something of an expert on the subject," Sherlock sniffed. "Of dating, that is."

"Not lately," John said darkly, trying to remember what stories he might have told Mrs. Hudson that night they broke out the rum. He hoped he hadn't given away anything too shocking. Although what would actually shock Mrs. Hudson, he could hardly begin to imagine at this point. "And none of my dates ever took place in front of a studio audience."

"It's quite simple, John, really." Sherlock produced a stack of blue cards from behind his back. "All your cues are here. All you have to do is read."

John sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Oh, and _smile_ of course."

"That's the hardest part," John glowered, snatching the cards from Sherlock's hand.

"Excellent!" Sherlock beamed and shoved him onto the stage. "Relax. You'll do fine."

 

***

 

"It's time to play…er, the Dating Game!"

John squinted into the floodlights for a tall white suit just so he could shoot a significant look at Sherlock over the word "game" in the bloody _name_ of the not-a-game show, but couldn't spot him through the glare. Off tending to his mysterious _other things_ already, apparently.

"Let's welcome, erm," he forged on, peering down at his blue card, "Janine Hawkins!"

A curvy, smiling, and—okay, _gorgeous—_ dark-eyed brunette bounded out from behind the backstage curtain, waving happily. The audience applauded while she got herself situated in a director's chair next to the tall panel, wallpapered with enormous purple flowers, that would hide her potential dates from her view. The audience, of course, would see everyone.

"So." John glanced at his next card. "Tell us a little about yourself, Janine."

"Well, I work as a PA," Janine began. Her voice was rich and lilting. "And that's a strictly professional personal service, none of those naughty ideas, you lot."

The audience chuckled, charmed already.

"My employer's in the news industry, but I'm ready to start making headlines myself…in love, that is. So I'm here to give you all my exposé. And you can make that one as naughty as you'd like," she winked.

The audience chuckled again, a little more salaciously. John wondered who they all were. Staff, probably. He couldn't make out faces.

"So, yes, I'm looking for love." Janine's eyes went distant, dreamy. "The kind that feels like it'll burn up all in one night, and also the kind that feels like it will look at thirty years like it was thirty seconds. I want the diamond nights out, dining and dancing, but I also want to snuggle up in a blanket under the stars. I want someone to laugh with so loud it wakes up the neighbors…and someone to do a few other things with so loud it wakes up the neighbors…but I also want someone who'll just hold me quietly. Someone strong. Someone soft. Someone fun. Someone sexy. Someone solid. I know what you're all thinking, right? I want it all!"

The audience chuckled. Even John smiled a little. Some of that hadn't sound half bad, really. _Someone_ would be nice. Someone, perhaps, who would have him doing some of the most ridiculous things he'd ever done…like hosting a game show. Someone who could be, frankly, a right arsehole sometimes.

"Well, I do! I do want it all. But whichever one of you lucky devils ends up with me…you won't be sorry. I'll promise that much."

Someone with a voice like low tide. Someone whose mouth looked soft as a breeze but whose eyes promised a maelstrom. Someone—

Janine cleared her throat.

"Oh. Right. Er," John flipped to his next card. "Now we'll, er…meet the dates! Date Number One, please introduce yourself."

From his podium, John's view of Janine's potential suitors was blocked by the same panel that blocked her view, so he had no idea if anyone was actually over there. He breathed a little sigh of relief when someone responded.

"All right, Janine, love? I'm called Fletcher, and I run a sort of…tourism business in the beautiful, picturesque, you'd-love-it village of Grimpon. Devon, right? My own business, self-employed. I'm enterprising. I'm creative. I'm fit. I'm a good bet. And Janine?"

"Yes, Fletcher?"

"I think you should know I have a _lot_ of energy."

"Good to know, Fletcher." Janine widened her eyes at the audience, who chuckled appreciatively.

"Terrific," John said. "Date Number Two?"

"Hi, Janine," said a silky voice. John's eyebrows rose. "You sound _absolutely_ delicious. I'm Kate. And we have one thing in common already."

"What's that, Kate?" Janine leaned forward in her chair, tilting her head to listen, "Besides sounding absolutely delicious, that is."

"Oh, you _are_ a naughty girl. But what we have in common is that I've also worked as a personal assistant. My take on the job was most definitely _very_ personal, though. I'd love to show you how I perform the service."

"Well, then," Janine sat back, eyebrows raised. "We'll have to exchange tips."

Someone in the audience wolf whistled.

"Date Number Three?"

"Sebastian here. Janine, I have an appreciation for the finer things in life." This one spoke with an easy arrogance. Public school. City. "And I can tell _you_ are one of the finer things. I hope you'll let a man who knows how to get what he wants give _you_ what you want."

"Oh, my," Janine grinned. "Well! This is all off to a grand start, don't you think?"

The audience cheered.

John rubbed a hand over his face and flipped to his next card.

 

***

 

"Question one. Where would you take Janine on your first date? Let's start with…Sebastian."

"How does a gondola ride in Venice sound? Or the skyline view from a penthouse in New York? Fireworks over Hong Kong. Dancing the tango in Buenos Aires. In fact, why don't I just take you all the way around the world? For you, Janine, twice."

"Fletcher?"

"I can't take you around the world, Janine, but I can take you to paradise," Fletcher said, a cheeky grin in his voice, "by which I mean…Dartmoor. But those stars you wanted to see, I can point you out each and every one out there. And under that moonlight, love, maybe I can even make you howl."

John grimaced. "Great. Kate?"

"Why go out when we can stay in? The first date should set the precedent, don't you think? We'd start the evening in elegance, with champagne and strawberries by the firelight. And we'd end the night in silk sheets," Kate purred, "and then let the elegance go."

"Okay, then." John coughed a little into his hand. "Janine, what do you think?"

Janine looked impressed. "I think I want to go on every one of those first dates."

 

***

 

"Question two. Janine's not feeling well."

Janine pouted and the audience _awww_ ed.

"How will you make her feel better? And let's start with Fletcher this time."

"If someone's giving you trouble, they'll answer to me," Fletcher said gruffly. "I know how to take care of myself and mine, and I'm sure you do too, because you just sound like that sort of woman, but everyone needs someone to have their back sometimes, right? Well, that's me, for you."

"I think you'll find the question is referring to ill health," Sebastian interjected, "rather than assault by ruffians."

There was a small, "Oh."

The audience tittered.

"Don't worry, Fletcher, love," Janine shouted out, "I adored your answer!"

"All right, Sebastian, it sounds like you're ready to speak up next," John said, and got a low snicker out of the audience.

There was a haughty sniff that must be Sebastian. "Janine, you would have everything you could possibly need. A nurse to tend to your every discomfort. A masseur to ease your pains. Even a chef to prepare your soup. And, naturally, your doting Sebastian by your side."

John thought he heard a grumble from Fletcher.

"Kate?"

"My poor Janine," Kate said huskily. "I would be the soft hand on your fevered brow. I would be any soothing…or sensual…touch your body required to feel better. And afterward, I would bathe you in scented water, brush your hair, and read to you until you drifted off to sleep."

"Janine, feeling any better yet?" John asked. The card said "what do you think" again, but he thought he was up to a little ad libbing.

"No!" Janine laid the back of her hand dramatically over her brow. "I feel a bit flushed. I think I might be coming down with a little something this very moment!"

 

***

 

"Question three. We've heard now what you'd all like to do for our lovely Janine."

Janine smiled at him. God, this was ridiculous. John smiled back.

"But what's _your_ pleasure? Tell us what Janine could do to make _you_ feel good. Kate?"

"To make me feel so very good, Janine need only tell me what she wants." Kate's voice went a little breathless. "Exactly how she wants it. Her pleasure is my pleasure. _Exactly_ the way she says."

"Right." John shifted behind the podium. "Sebastian?"

"Make everyone I know screamingly envious that the most beautiful, intelligent, _sexy_ woman in the world is on _my_ arm. I would _love_ to show you off, Janine my jewel."

"Mmhmm. Fletcher?"

"I'd be happy with a smile," said Fletcher.

The audience _awwww_ ed again.

Fletcher's voice came back, a little shy. "And maybe a bit of a rub behind my ears. I like that."

"Oh, you darling," Janine grinned, squeezing her hands together. " _All_ of you."

 

***

 

Janine fanned herself with her hand as the audience applause died down.

"Well, Janine. It looks like it's time to make a decision."

"How?" Janine shook her head helplessly. "They're incredible, all of them. Like they've walked out of my fantasies. How can I pick just one?"

John flipped to his next card, frowned, and re-read just to make sure. "Oh. Actually…you don't have to."

"What does that mean?" Janine asked, looking alarmed. "Of course I have to pick someone. I'm certainly not going home with _no one._ "

"No, I mean…it says here, you don't have to pick just _one_."

"What?"

"It's very clear in the rules." John nodded down at his blue card. "One or more."

"One or more," Janine repeated slowly. She looked a little dazed. " _Oh_."

The audience, who seemed to be already on board with the one or more idea, applauded encouragingly.

" _I don't have to pick just one_ ," she murmured.

"So, then," John prompted, "Which _one or more_ of your dates would you like to go home with you, Janine?"

"Well, before I choose, it's really only fair to ask…" Janine spoke towards the dividing panel, "what do _you_ lot think? Fletcher? Kate? Sebastian? About…one or more?"

There was a short silence, before Sebastian spoke.

"Fletcher _is_ quite fit."

"Yeah? Cheers, mate!"

"Sebastian has very nice hands," Kate said. "They look…soft."

"Fucking hell, I'm in," Fletcher sounded rather enthusiastic. He did say he had a lot of energy, after all. "For anything. Wait'll you see these two, love."

Janine broke into a blinding smile. "Oh my god, then all of you! I'll have all of you!" She sprang from her stool and ran across the stage, around the panel, where she was met halfway by her new admirers. After a collective pause to take each other in, they flung themselves together, a huddle of bent heads and delighted laughter.

John didn't bother reading the last cards. Amidst the din of applause, he made his way around the spontaneous group snog and off stage.

 

***

 

Sherlock was waiting in the wings, a satisfied smirk playing on his lips.

"Well." John straightened his jacket. "How did I do?"

"Mm, not a patch on Cilla Black," Sherlock made a regretful little _tsk_ sound out of the side of his mouth, then let a half-smile curl there, "but not bad, John. Not bad at all."

"That was." John blew out a breath. "Something."

"Oh, you enjoyed it."

"Not…exactly the word I'd use."

Sherlock's brows drew down. "Problem?"

"No, er, no problem," John said a little unconvincingly. Okay, a lot unconvincingly. He was a little keyed up. Okay, a lot keyed up. It was his game show host debut, after all. And here was Sherlock, the bastard, looking so delighted John was glad he'd given in and gone onstage after all. And the whole thing had made John _wonder_ …and maybe he should just _ask_ …

Sherlock gave him a long, close look, then rolled his eyes. "Oh, I see."

"You see? What do you see?"

Sherlock heaved a weary sigh. " _You_ wanted to date Janine. _Lovely_ Janine. Really, John, jealousy doesn't suit you."

"What? _Jealousy_?" John blinked. Lovely as she may have been, the _someone_ John's mind summoned up was not Janine-shaped. Taller, for one thing. Far bigger hands. "No, that's not…why would you say that?"

"You were smiling at her."

"You _told_ me to smile!" John's eyes narrowed. "Hang on, have you been here watching this whole time?"

"Of course," Sherlock shrugged.

"So you _could_ have been the host."

"Well," the mischievous smirk returned, "this was more fun."

"Sherlock, you do know you're a right arsehole sometimes, yeah?"

"John, that's hardly an appropriate remark to make to your employer."

"Oh, sod right off," John snorted. "You're hardly an appropriate employer."

Sherlock grinned at him proudly.

John grinned back. So, maybe now was as good a time as any. Since he was _wondering_. He took a deep breath. "The thing is…with Janine…"

"Yes?"

"Well, I'm happy for her, it's just not the sort of thing I'm _personally_ looking for." John looked up at Sherlock. "You know?"

"Mmm…no."

John cleared his throat. "I'm more of a one-on-one sort of…bloke."

"Oh!" Sherlock blinked.

John smiled.

"That reminds me," Sherlock pulled his mobile out of his pocket and pressed a key to dial. "Mrs. Hudson! You'll probably want to set the fountain up in the courtyard of Ms. Hawkins's bungalow. Yes, the _special_ fountain. Sorry, John. You were saying?"

"Er. Nothing. Really." John shifted his weight. He chewed on his bottom lip for a thoughtful moment. Minor setback, there, but he wasn't going to be so easily deterred. Another breath. "So, erm, just wondering…who would you have chosen?"

"For what?"

"You know. Your…date. If you had to pick someone…out there. Someone who was…on the stage."

"My date." Sherlock repeated, his expression gone wary.

John looked at Sherlock and tried another smile, a cautious one. "Date, yeah. People…do that. Date."

And Sherlock took a step back.

"John, I told you. The conductor doesn't—"

"—wade into the pit, right. I thought you meant the, er, pool…scenario…specifically."

"People, John. I meant people."

"People are the pit." John nodded. He was starting to get a horrible, oh-god-I've-gone-wrong feeling in his stomach. The pit of it. "Okay, but…you're doing all this _for_ people."

"No, I'm not."

"But I thought…" John gestured at the now-empty stage. Dust motes swirled in the soft, rose-colored light. "Love. Janine, she came here looking for love. Isn't that what this is about?"

"John, really. _Love_?" Sherlock looked at John like he'd just said the most ludicrous thing in the world.

And he had, hadn't he? Oh, yeah. John had got it wrong. "So…just a game show, then," he said softly, on a wry little half-laugh.

"John." Sherlock turned his face towards the shadows. "It's always just a game."

 

 


	4. Man's Best Friend

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Faced with an ultimatum, a man comes to the island to confront his fear of dogs. John focuses on the work, because the work is what matters. Guest starring: Henry Knight

"Oh, and who do we have here?" Mrs. Hudson cooed, stepping out in front of Sherlock before he could deliver his customary welcome. She bent down to address their new guest.

"This is Ushi," Ushi's owner smiled. He set his suitcase down beside him as the plane pulled away from the landing behind him and turned back into the lagoon.

Sherlock glared at the top of Mrs. Hudson's head and drew himself up, re-asserting his presence. "Welcome to Fantasy Island, Mr. Lyons," he said, just a bit on the loud side.

"Thank you," Lyons nodded. "We're happy to be here, aren't we, girl?"

"May I?" Mrs. Hudson asked, smiling at the happily panting, square-jawed dog.

"You'll have a friend for life," Lyons grinned.

Mrs. Hudson reached out and gave Ushi a welcoming pat on the head. Ushi wagged her tail enthusiastically and gave Mrs. Hudson an adoring look.

"Well, hello there, Ushi," Mrs. Hudson beamed. She introduced herself to the white and black-spotted dog and then pointed up at John and Sherlock. "And this is Mr. Sherlock Holmes and his friend, Captain John Watson."

"His _colleague_ ," John corrected.

Lyons' hand twitched in the direction of a salute before John could reach out to offer a handshake.

John smiled sympathetically. "Yeah, I thought you had the look. And it's John, please."

"Old habits," Lyons said wryly, and shook John's hand. "I'm only just over two years out."

"I still can't eat my eggs without a layer of Tabasco," John chuckled, and glanced up at Sherlock, "and I sometimes find myself walking in step with people."

"John is also a doctor," Sherlock frowned, looking between them.

Lyons gave John a closer look, friendly appraisal. "Well, where would you like us to set up camp, so to speak?"

"Mrs. Hudson will show you to your quarters."

"Great," Lyons nodded. "Oh, do you mind…?"

He held out the handle of Ushi's leash to Sherlock while he reached down to collect his bags. When Sherlock took it, Ushi turned toward him with a friendly head-tilt and made a pleased little _rrf_ sound.

Sherlock's face went immediately soft, his eyes warm. "Hello, girl," he said quietly, and went down on one knee, smiling, to scruffle the fur of her neck. Ushi wagged harder and licked Sherlock's cheek.

John's eyes went wide.

"She likes you, Mr. Holmes," Lyons grinned, taking the leash back.

Sherlock coughed and straightened abruptly, smoothing down his jacket and avoiding John's stare as Mrs. Hudson led Lyons past the reception garden fountain and toward the bungalows, Ushi trotting along happily beside them.

John didn't think it was his imagination that Sherlock seemed a bit cooler, a bit more formal around him since the awkward (mortifying) backstage conversation where John had only just narrowly avoided making a _complete_ fool of himself over Sherlock. The partial fool he had made of himself was bad enough. He had since tried to maintain a pleasant, professional demeanor, not seeking out Sherlock's company except when some island business-related task was requested of him.

There had been precious few island-related tasks requested of him, though, and in spite of Mrs. Hudson's bolstering company John was feeling lonely. How he wished he'd just kept his infatuated mouth shut. Because the thing was, even if Sherlock didn't "wade into the pit," John _did_ think of him as a friend. A strange, unpredictable, like-no-other friend, but a friend still. He didn't want to be just a colleague.

"So," he pursed his lips, "you like dogs."

"I have no particular sentiment towards dogs," Sherlock said distantly, looking across the lagoon. "I was simply…making our guest feel welcome."

John raised his eyebrows. "Okay. Well. What's his fantasy, then? Lyons."

"He doesn't have one."

"Sorry?"

"He is the fantasy."

"Oh." John looked after Mrs. Hudson and Lyons, just disappearing around a turn in the tree-lined walkway to the guest quarters. "Yeah, er, I can see it."

Sherlock made a sound of exasperation and rolled his eyes. "Mr. Lyons is a dog trainer, John."

"Ah, I see." John frowned. "No, I don't. What?"

"Our _client_ is afraid of dogs."

 

***

 

Henry Knight, in the right light, was quite a handsome bloke. Usually he was standing in the other light, though, the light that gave him just a bit of a gormless look. Which was inaccurate and totally unfair. He had plenty of…gorm, thank you very much. Except when it came to being around dogs. He felt completely foolish having to come so far, go to such lengths to get over his silly childhood fear.

At the time it started, it hadn't felt so silly. That dog, that enormous snarling animal, had bitten his father badly while little Henry cowered behind a tree, screaming and crying and unable to _do_ anything. But, bloody hell, he was an adult now and he knew perfectly well all dogs weren't terrifying, malevolent beasts.

So he was _glad_ , really, that Jack had forced his hand. Learn to be around dogs, learn to be around Jack's dog Maggie in particular, or it was over between them. It was a good thing. He really _should_ get over it. It was time.

 

***

 

Henry's back was to the corner, his breath was coming too fast, and he'd forgotten how to blink.

"Ushi, bed!" ordered a man's voice, and the great, fanged muscled creature ambled amiably through the door into the other room.

Strong hands held Henry's shoulders.

"Henry, it's okay. Just breathe."

Soothing hands on his shoulders. Calm, deep voice.

"Breathe."

"Sorry," Henry gasped, ashamed. "I'm so sorry."

"No, Henry, you're fine. You're absolutely fine."

Henry's gaze refocused on the pair of sympathetic, dark eyes in front him. "Fuck," he muttered.

The trainer shook his head. "That's on me, Henry. That was all on me. I hadn't realized…it was that bad."

"Yeah." Henry sighed. "It's that bad."

 

***

 

Ushi was squirming on her back on the carpet, feet pedaling the air, grunting happily while Lyons rubbed her white-furred belly.

"She's a pit-beagle mix actually," he told Henry, smiling fondly. "I found her when she was just a puppy. Abandoned in a field near the base. There were _mines_ there, for Christ's sake. My mates helped me hide her, take care of her, and I trained her up."

"She's friendly," Henry observed. He was keeping a safe distance, just in case, but she did seem…well, friendly. Eager to please. And—Ushi issued another satisfied grunt—completely lacking in dignity. "Maggie's…not. All that friendly."

Lyon's glanced over at Henry. "Is Maggie's owner friendly?" he asked carefully.

Henry frowned. "No. Not really."

"Hm," Lyons said. "There's a surprise. Henry…you're doing so well. You know that, right? I'm really impressed."

Henry shook his head. "I can't even touch her yet."

"But look at you. In the same room, relaxed."

Henry snorted.

Lyons grinned. "Okay, _more_ relaxed."

"I just feel…so ridiculous," Henry confessed with a sigh. How hard would it be, just to reach out and touch one of those soft-looking black-tipped ears. He looked at Lyons' black hair, soft in the sunlight filtering in through the curtained window.

"Henry," Lyons' mouth tightened, "whoever made you feel that way is an utter _twat_ ," he said fiercely.

Henry blinked.

Lyons flushed. "Sorry. That was…it's none of my business."

"I want to try," Henry swallowed hard, and nodded. "I want to try. Touching her."

"Are you sure? You don't have to—"

"No, I _want_ to."

"Okay," Lyons stopped petting the dog's belly. "Come on over, bit closer. Ushi, stay."

Ushi's tongue lolled out of the side of her mouth. She watched them complacently from her back.

Henry took a deep breath and reached out his hand. And froze.

"Henry?"

"I'm fine. I'm fine. Just…a little help?"

"Here." Lyons held out his hand, palm down. "Put your hand on mine."

Lyons' hand felt warm under his as he guided Henry closer until finally Lyons' hand was flat on Ushi's belly, and Henry's hand flat atop his.

"Okay?" Lyons asked quietly.

Henry nodded, and threaded his fingers through Lyons' until they touched fur. He smiled.

Ushi grunted.

Henry started, with a little yelp, and then looked at Lyons and burst into laughter. Lyons' eyes crinkled back at him as he grinned at Henry from ear to ear.

"Henry!" he exclaimed, and pulled Henry into a huge hug, "that was fantastic!"

"Yeah," Henry beamed, squeezed so hard he could have grunted in delight himself. "It was. It really was."

Ushi rolled onto her side and peered up at them, panting happily, like she was pleased with Henry, too.

"Come on, you," Lyons pulled back and clapped Henry on the shoulder. "I'm buying you a drink."

 

***

 

"So that's what I want to do," Lyons looked down into his half-empty beer glass, a rather adorably shy smile playing around his lips. "Open a big shelter, you know? Take in abandoned dogs, strays and what not and train them, socialize them properly. And we can do classes to teach the new owners how to work with them."

"That's nice," Henry said.

"Yeah," Lyons shrugged.

"No, really," Henry put his hand on Lyons' arm. "That's really nice. That's…a good thing to do. I'm…really impressed."

The bar was quiet, with only a few other groups of people talking in low voices at their respective tables. The breeze carried the scent of the ocean.

"Well…thanks," Lyons grinned. Torchlight flickered in his dark eyes. "That's, er, nice to hear."

Henry smiled into his drink. He hadn't realized when he ordered that it would be served in a coconut with a little umbrella sticking out of it, but he didn't even care right now. It was such a warm, sweet evening.

 

***

 

Ushi blinked up at him, head tilted quizzically.

"Just tell her what you want her to do," Lyons prompted. He had a reassuring hand on Henry's shoulder. "Calm and confident."

Henry gave a nervous half-laugh. "I thought you said be myself."

"That _is_ you, Henry."

Henry's eyes shot to Lyons' face to see if he was having a laugh at him, but he looked perfectly serious. "Whenever you're not wound up about the dog, that _is_ you," he smiled. _He_ looked calm and confident. "At least, that's how I see you."

Henry swallowed. "She…intimidates me."

"Okay…" Lyons scratched his chin for a moment. "How about this, then? You can practice on me first."

"Er."

"Yeah, come on," Lyons nodded encouragement and sent Ushi into the other room with a quick hand signal. "I've been in the army. I'm used to a command voice," he grinned.

Henry shifted his weight and chuckled self-consciously, "Well, actually, _you_ intimidate me, too."

"Why?"

"Have you _seen_ you? Fucking hell, you're the most incredible—" Henry blurted out before could think, and then his eyes widened in shock. "I mean…"

Lyons blinked at him.

Henry squeezed his eyes shut. "God. Sorry."

"Then I suppose…" Lyons said slowly. His voice sounded deeper than it had a moment before. "That makes it even better practice."

Henry's eyes flew open.

Lyons' cheeks were flushed. "What do you want me to do?"

"I…I don't know…" Henry stammered, utterly flustered. "Sit down?"

"Calm and confident."

"This feels ridiculous."

Lyons tilted his head at Henry, quizzically, and waited.

Henry took a slow breath. "Sit."

Lyons sank to his knees at Henry's feet and sat back on his heels.

"Oh," Henry breathed.

Lyons watched him.

Henry licked his lips. "Shake," he said, and held out his hand.

Lyons slid his hand, his strong, reassuring hand, into Henry's, and stroked his thumb over the backs of Henry's knuckles.

"Lyons…"

"It's Will."

Henry looked down at the hand in his and huffed a breathless laugh. His throat felt hot. His jeans felt tight. He thought he could hear waves crashing on the nearby beach. "Will."

"You might want to choose your next command with some care," Lyons said, and his gaze ran slowly down Henry's body.

Henry took another deep breath and said, "Come."

 

***

 

"What if I can't do it?" he whispered in the darkness.

Lyons shifted under the sheets, ran a hand over Henry's stomach. "Do what?" he asked sleepily.

"Get over it. Stop being afraid."

"Mm. I think you will. With time."

"But what if I can't?" Henry's palm played over the back of Lyons' neck. "Will, you…you work with dogs."

"Then we'll keep working," Lyons said firmly, and pressed a kiss against Henry's bare shoulder. "We'll work it out. Okay? We'll work it out."

 

***

 

"You should make it up with him," Mrs. Hudson said.

John turned his attention from the biplane bobbing in the lagoon. It was just Mrs. Hudson and himself there to farewell the guests. Sherlock had returned to his habit of leaving it to them, off doing whatever he did in his private office.

John frowned. "We haven't had row."

Mrs. Hudson gave him a look.

"Not…exactly." John pulled a face. "I may have…misunderstood something."

"I highly doubt that, John. You seem like a perceptive young—" Mrs. Hudson's attention shifted to the walkway behind the fountain. "Oh, look, he looks happy," she exclaimed.

John turned to look and couldn't help a surprised smile. Henry Knight had Ushi's leash in one hand and Lyons' hand in the other. Both were looking at him with the same brown-eyed adoration. Henry was smiling so hard John thought it must be hurting his face, glowing with pride.

"And you look happy, too," Mrs. Hudson bent down to pet Ushi when the trio stopped in front of them. Ushi wagged at her furiously.

"We are," Lyons grinned. "Sherlock Holmes—"

"Is a genius?" John smirked.

"Please thank him for me," Henry said.

Lyons gave Henry pointed look. "For _us._ "

"You know what I've learned about working with dogs?" Henry mused. "Sometimes you have to find the right reward. Sometimes it's food. Sometimes it's a toy." He squeezed Lyons' hand. "Sometimes it's just affection."

Mrs. Hudson lifted an eyebrow at John. "That's a very good point, Mr. Knight."

"It looks like you found the right combination," John smiled, ignoring her. He gave Ushi a friendly rub under the chin. "Hey, there, pretty girl. You have a good trip home. All of you," he said as he straightened.

"Make it up with him," Mrs. Hudson murmured again as they waved their goodbyes and the plane pulled away from the landing.

"Mrs. Hudson," John shook his head, "we aren't—"

"Oh, John, of _course_ you're his friend," she said firmly.

John blinked in surprise.

"He probably just hasn't realized it yet."

"The most observant man I've ever met hasn't _realized_ I'm his friend," John scoffed.

Mrs. Hudson patted his arm. "You see? You do understand him."

 

***

 

Sherlock looked up from his desk when John walked into his office, and his expression immediately went wary.

John took a breath and held up the mug he was carrying. "Tea."

Sherlock frowned. "Where's Mrs. Hudson?" He hadn't changed completely out of his suit. The jacket was tossed haphazardly over the back of a chair, and Sherlock's white shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, the collar open at his throat. The light from his desk lamp highlighted the long line of his neck in gold.

"Other business," John said primly. "Do you want your tea or not?"

"I…" Sherlock sat back and nodded at an empty spot on his desk. "Thank you."

John set down the mug and folded his arms, giving Sherlock a thoughtful look. "Henry Knight says thank you. Lyons, too. And you're a genius."

"Mm," Sherlock grunted, reaching for his mug.

"Actually, I said the genius part."

Sherlock's silvery gaze flicked up.

"Another…" John paused, considering his phrasing. The last thing he wanted to do was allude to _love_. "Another elegant solution. Brilliant, really."

Sherlock's eyes brightened.

"It _is_ elegant, John. Not only will Henry Knight recover in time from his fear of dogs, but he'll fund Will Lyons' animal shelter."

John raised his eyebrows.

"Henry Knight is a wealthy man," Sherlock explained, smiling into a sip of his tea. "A very wealthy man."

"You see?" John nodded. "Brilliant. Well...that's said, so I'll just…let you get back to whatever you're doing, there."

Sherlock frowned. "Oh."

John turned and then paused in the doorway of Sherlock's office. "I just wanted to, you know, stop by and tell you. That I still think what you do is amazing." He smiled. "That you're really amazing."

"John," Sherlock blinked. His brows drew down and he looked down at his desk. "I do like dogs."

"Yeah," John grinned. "I know." He closed the door behind him and headed out. It was a beautiful day on the island.

 

***


	5. Kin and Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mrs. Hudson has a family reunion and an announcement. Sherlock's brother visits the island. Guest starring: Mycroft Holmes, Molly Hooper

Preparations for Mrs. Hudson's family reunion had been running the entire staff of the island ragged, John in particular, setting up venues and arranging activities. He felt as exhausted as he had ever been since taking on this job, and it wasn't even for a proper _fantasy_. How much family could the bloody woman actually have?

No, that was unfair…John adored Mrs. Hudson and didn't begrudge her family or friends or festivity or any good thing in the world. He was more than a little puzzled with Sherlock's attitude towards the whole affair, though. On one hand, Mrs. Hudson was a much appreciated employee and it was completely understandable Sherlock would grant her request to host this event. On the other hand, Sherlock had been in—and there was no better way to put it—a complete _strop_ since the planning began, all snip and scowl, with none of his usual sly smiles. And John had only made the _one_ joke again about Sherlock being a glorified party planner.

So as John dragged himself back to his bungalow in the late hours of the evening, running a weary hand through his hair and glancing up in worry at the rolling clouds that had begun to crowd out the stars in the night sky, he blamed his distraction and fatigue for the fact that it took him a moment after he stepped inside to notice the man in his sitting room.

"Good evening, Doctor Watson. I think you'll find you aren't carrying the weapon you're reaching for, but I assure you it's hardly necessary. I'm only here to talk."

John's jolt of adrenaline, prickling him into an instant wary alertness, had already allowed him to process as much, even in the shadowed blue half-light. This man was no threat. No _physical_ threat, that is _._ John flicked on the sitting room light switch.

"Who are you?"

The man was sat in one of John's tan-upholstered Bergere chairs, leaning back comfortably with his legs crossed at the knee. One long-fingered, ivory-skinned hand rested easily on the curved handle of an umbrella. His blue three-piece suit, the cut of his dark hair, the shine of his shoes, and the cool stare down his long slope of a nose all said _power_. Right. The sort who didn't need to pose a physical threat.

The man did something with his face John might have described as a smile, if it had been one. "That is, in essence, my question for you, Doctor Watson. Who are you?"

John folded his arms over his chest and returned the not-smile. "Well, clearly you know my name. Have you not read my bio on the website? About Us section. Has my photo and everything. I'd be happy to send you a link."

The man's eyes glittered, strangely familiar for a moment. "Your _website bio_ ," he pronounced the words distastefully, mockingly, "is lacking certain significant detail. For example, there is no mention of your alcoholic sister. Harriet, I believe she's called. Nor of the shoulder wound that ended your military career. Sniper."

John drew in a steady breath and narrowed his eyes. "Who _are_ you?"

"I could go on, but I trust I've made my point. There is only one question I wish you to answer: What is your relationship with Sherlock Holmes?"

John's fist clenched. Tight. He dropped his chin and took a step forward, a step that could not be mistaken for anything but a threat, and clipped out, "What do you want with Sherlock?"

"My." The man's eyebrows drifted up. "You're _very_ loyal, aren't you? Particularly for a _very_ recent employee."

"My _job_ is security," John snapped, "and _you_ aren't getting anywhere near Sherlock Holmes."

The man just tapped a finger on the handle of his umbrella and smirked, his voice soft, "I think I have my answer."

 

***

 

"Your brother?" John gaped.

Mycroft Holmes grimaced. "Sherlock, I told you I was coming to your little island for some _peace_ and _quiet._ You might have warned me about this extraordinary infestation of _people_."

"Oh, did I not mention the reunion?" Sherlock smiled, all incisors. "Oops!"

"For God's sake," Mycroft's lip curled in dismay, "there are _children_."

John stared between the two of them. "This is your _brother_."

"So leave." Sherlock turned back to his desk with a dramatic flounce and straightened a random stack of papers. "Bye-bye. Lovely visit. See you next year."

"Sherlock," John pointed at Mycroft, "he _broke into my house_. I might have _hurt_ him."

Sherlock gave a blithe shrug. "Don't let me stop you."

"I'm not sure which of you I'd rather hurt right now, actually," John muttered.

"Nice try, Sherlock, but you'll not be rid of me quite so easily," Mycroft sniffed, brushing down his suit sleeve.

"I never am," Sherlock sighed. "Now do run along, Mycroft. I have business of my own to tend to."

"Ah, yes," Mycroft smiled. "Your party planning."

John buried a snort of laughter in his hand and cleared his throat.

Sherlock glared at them both. "In fact, I have a client."

"We do?" John blinked. "What client?"

"You needn't concern yourself, John. I realize your hands are full with the reunion."

"Which you might bother yourself now and then to check in on, for Mrs. Hudson's sake," John frowned. What _client_? He glanced at Mycroft, who was watching him with dry amusement. John frowned harder.

"Ugh," Sherlock waved a hand. "I visited the reception lawn earlier this morning. Briefly. Everyone was _greeting_ one another, how wonderful." He shuddered.

"I'll suppose I'll simply have to confine myself to one of the more isolated of your _bungalows_ ," Mycroft sniffed, brushing down his suit sleeve, "to avoid the rabble."

" _People_." Sherlock flopped into his desk chair and rolled his eyes. "No, John, I leave _this_ party all to you."

"Yeah, brothers." John shook his head, looking between the two woefully wilted men. "I'm seeing it now."

 

***

 

Having spent a large portion of the morning letting Noah drive her around the island in one of the open-doored red estate wagons with the red-and-white striped awnings she'd always thought so cheerful, Molly Hooper felt well caught up on all the island gossip and acquainted with all the little changes made in the gardens and architecture since she'd left.

It was bittersweet, returning to Fantasy Island, although time had indeed eased much of her heartache. The breeze was still warm and fragrant. The flowers were still brightly vibrant, the trees still rustled sighs. It still felt like she belonged here.

The staff (Molly could still picture the assignment rosters in Sherlock's headquarters) had done an amazing job in setting up for the reunion. Noah had shown her all the venues and activities: hula lessons on the north beach, drumming lessons in the acoustically-resonant Azure Cove, fishing, guided hikes to the falls, canoeing, a garden for the children to make their own leis, and even a great bloody pirate ship to tour. Aunt Sissy had been beside herself over it all when they met by the reception fountain, blinking back tears after she finally released Molly from a tight embrace.

Molly gave her server Camilla's arm a friendly squeeze of thanks for the flower-free vodka tonic, delighted she'd remembered Molly's preference, and settled down onto one of the garden benches to watch the other guests. Aunt Sissy's extended family, both blood kin and found, was a large and eclectic group along with their assorted partners and the plus ones, twos, and threes they'd brought along to the island. Molly of course had cousins and friends among the party to catch up with as well, but there was no rush.

"Hello."

Molly looked around. A boy with big eyes and a tumbled mess of dark curls stood beside her bench, regarding her gravely. "Hello," she said back.

"Are you bored, too?"

"No, I'm not bored. I'm watching people."

"That sounds boring."

"Oh, it isn't," Molly smiled, mostly to herself. "Especially when they're alive."

The boy's brow furrowed. He tilted his head at her thoughtfully. "You usually watch dead people?"

"Erm," Molly said. "Are you one of Aunt Sissy…I mean, Mrs. Hudson's family? I don't remember seeing you before."

"No. I don't know who that is. I'm Archie." Archie hopped up on the bench beside her. "I'm here with my dad."

"Is, er, your father one of Mrs. Hudson's family, then?"

Archie rolled his eyes at her. " _No_. He's here for work. He _says_ we're here on holiday, but he's really here for work."

"Oh. What does he do?"

"He's a policeman. What do you do?"

"I'm a pathologist."

Archie frowned. "What's that?"

"It's…a bit like a cross between a doctor and a chemist."

"Does that mean you give people medicine?"

"Well, no. Most of the people I work with are, er, dead actually. So medicine's not much help."

Archie's eyes got even bigger and brightened considerably. "You _do_ watch dead people! Cool!"

"The living ones tend to move about a bit more," Molly murmured, grinning into her drink at the boy's macabre enthusiasm. And, frankly, it was gratifying for someone to show such approval for her job. Archie couldn't be more than ten, though, and she really shouldn't encourage his fascination…

She looked around furtively—Archie's father must be around here somewhere, after all—maybe with a similar set of tumbled curls and, oh, wouldn't that be lovely? She didn't see anyone that seemed to be looking for the boy, though, so she leaned in and whispered, "But just the other week there was a man, an exciting case. Nobody could tell how he'd died until I did some tests and found out he'd been killed by a very _rare_ poison."

"Murdered?" Archie leaned in eagerly. "What poison?"

" _Radix pedis diaboli_ ," Molly said. "Devil's foot, it's called. And then before that, there was a man who'd been stung by a jellyfish—"

"Archie?"

Molly straightened abruptly from her hunched whisper, sloshing a bit of her vodka tonic onto her flowered skirt. "Oh!"

A silver-haired man with a friendly, slightly crooked smile put his hand on Archie's shoulder.

"Dad! This is Molly!" Archie presented her proudly. "She experiments on dead people!"

Molly flushed from the roots of her hair to her toes as Archie's father turned an appraising look on her.

"I see," he said. "Hey, Archie, see over there where they have those meat and fruit things on sticks? Why don't you run and fetch a couple for us whilst I say hello to your new friend?"

"Okay!" Archie nodded agreeably and dashed off across the lawn.

"I hope he wasn't bothering you," the man said, wincing a little as he turned back to Molly.

"Oh! No!" Molly shook her had vigorously. "It was me. I mean. Not. It's just, I work in a morgue, you see, and I think he, er…was interested."

"Ahh," he nodded. "I see. That sounds like Archie. He's had a bit of a fascination with death ever since…well, ever since his mother died."

"Oh," Molly breathed. "Oh, no, I'm so sorry…"

"No, no, it was a long time ago now. I just…sometimes he can…shock people."

"Well, certainly not me," Molly chuckled. "It was the same with me, actually. That…fascination. After my own mum passed and…so he reminded me a bit of myself, actually. At that age. And also a bit of someone I…care for. Cared for. So I liked him. Straight away. Archie, that is. So…sorry, I'm going on quite a lot, aren't I?"

The man grinned and held out a hand. "Greg Lestrade."

"Molly Hooper. Professional pathologist and amateur babbler. I'm here with Martha Hudson's party. The family reunion. Are you…?"

Archie re-appeared at Lestrade's side, brandishing three chicken and pineapple skewers.

Lestrade put his hand back on the boy's shoulder and smiled. "We're here on holiday," he said brightly.

Archie sneaked a conspiratorial grin up at Molly.

Molly nodded. "I see."

 

***

 

Mycroft carried his glass of scotch and his cigarettes out to the gazebo overlooking the rocky north beach. It had been teeming with people during the day, dancing and talking and doing the things people seemed to do, but now it was quiet and deserted, waves lapping rhythmically against the beach. Flashes of distant lightning flickered gold and purple light through the heavy, rolling clouds obscuring the night sky.

Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft knew from Sherlock, was making her family announcement tonight in the main gardens. Any island guests not in attendance had likely been encouraged indoors by the imminent threat of rain.

Mycroft, though, had always loved a good storm. A cool puff of wind from the north stirred the hairs on his forearms, exposed by his decadently rolled-up shirt sleeves. After a contented sigh, the kind he only allowed himself when he was assured of his solitude, Mycroft took a long swallow of scotch and then cupped his hands against the wind to light a cigarette.

"I don't suppose you could spare one of those?"

Mycroft turned, unhurried, to the source of the slightly gruff voice, a man walking up the steps of the gazebo towards him. A handsome man, hair as silvery as the moon on a clear night, dark eyes twinkling. He stuffed his hands into the pockets of his frayed khaki shorts and gave Mycroft a sheepish smile. He looked like a beachcomber, although clearly he couldn't be. The island was only accessible to staff and guests, all strictly screened. Mycroft had nevertheless frequently admonished Sherlock on his decision not to install security cameras.

"Of course," Mycroft said, polite and easy.

The man took a cigarette from the proffered pack and then leaned in to allow Mycroft to light it. Mycroft did not miss the way the man's eyes lingered on his hands as the little flame flickered between them.

"I hope I'm not interrupting you," the man said, eyelids fluttering closed for a moment as he exhaled smoke.

"Not at all."

"I'm trying to quit. But there's…something in the air tonight?"

Mycroft brought his cigarette to his lips and took a slow drag. "Is there?"

He would obviously never say as much to Sherlock, but it was a beautiful island his brother had chosen to spend his time and energy on, frivolous as his pursuits may be. Even Mycroft, normally susceptible to precious few temptations, was susceptible to relaxation in a place like this. The rain-scented wind stirred again, whispering secrets across the leaves.

"I suppose I'm just a bit…restless," the man shrugged. He looked at Mycroft's mouth and looked away again quickly.

"Are you not attending Mrs. Hudson's gathering this evening?"

"Ah, no. I heard about it, talking to some of the other guests earlier, but I'm not with that group. I'm just on holiday. With my son."

"I see. And where is your son?"

"One of the events was a sleepover for the kids." The man scuffed his battered sneaker over one of the gazebo floorboards, smiling down fondly. "Archie wanted to go."

"So you're free this evening."

The man's head snapped up, mouth open in surprise.

"Have I mistaken you?" Mycroft asked softly. He took a sip of his scotch.

The man huffed a laugh. "No," he said, his voice gone gravelly. "No, you…were a little…quicker about it than I might have been but…no. You've, er, got it exactly right."

"Good."

"Er. Yeah. Good. Well. My name is—"

Mycroft held up a hand. "If it's all the same to you, I'd rather not know."

Mycroft wasn't given to flights of fancy, _something in the air_ and such rot. He wasn't given to self-indulgence. But things on the island were changing. There was a storm coming in. And Mycroft had always loved a good storm.

"Okay, then." The man nodded, slowly, and licked his lips. "I can do that."

Mycroft stubbed out his cigarette and held out his hand to the handsome stranger. "Come with me."

There was most definitely something in the air tonight.

 

***

 

"Thank you all so very much for coming," Mrs. Hudson said in a rather tremulous voice from the stage John had directed the staff to set up in the main garden. "You all mean so much to me."

John spared a quick glance for Sherlock, who was standing beside him like a statue, stone-faced and unmoving, before he gave Mrs. Hudson an encouraging little smile. He would be nervous, too, addressing so many people.

Thunder was rumbling from not too far off and the torches that lit the garden were fluttering wildly in gusts of wind that had begun to bow the nearby trees, but Mrs. Hudson's family all stood listening attentively.

"I had planned to save this announcement for later in the evening…hopefully after you'd all had much more to drink."

There was a ripple of laughter across the garden.

"But with this storm on its way, I'd best get it over with."

John frowned curiously, looking up again at Sherlock just as Mrs. Hudson looked directly at the pair of them. "I've been so very happy here on Fantasy Island. So very happy, you must know. But it's time for me to move on. It's time for me to retire."

John blinked.

"I've given Mr. Holmes my resignation. And, the dear man, he so kindly agreed to allow me to invite all of you here to celebrate, even though I'll be seeing you much more frequently now back home!" She beamed at Sherlock, who had not so much as batted an eyelash, and then out at her family, who burst into applause.

"You knew about this?" John pulled Sherlock down by the arm so he could hiss right into his ear. "From the start?"

"Obviously I knew about it, John," Sherlock's mouth set in a hard line as he jerked his arm away. "And now that I've stood through it, I'm getting the _hell_ out of here."

"Oh." John drew back at the sudden blaze of resentment in Sherlock's eyes. "I…do you need me…would you like me to come with you?"

"Do what you like," Sherlock snapped back over his shoulder. "Everyone else does."

 

***

 

Mycroft shoved file folders brimming with sensitive government information off the coffee table and then shoved the man with his big hands all over Mycroft's arse down onto the sofa and climbed on top of him.

"Oh, yeah," groaned the man as their hips aligned.

Mycroft growled and ground down against him. He was rock-hard in his trousers and he was sweating and he swore violently when one of those big hands finally slid inside his boxers.

By the time he came, rocking into the man's hand and biting his lip almost bloody, eyes squeezed shut so tightly he saw stars, his trousers were around his thighs and his shirt was on the floor. His handsome companion was similarly mussed and manhandled, silver hair sticking out wildly in all directions.

"Wow," the man breathed. He smiled and wrapped his arms around Mycroft and _squeezed_. " _Wow_."

It took Mycroft a long, muzzy moment to realize the man was _hugging_ him, nuzzling into his bare shoulder. He froze.

"That was. Absolutely. Fucking. Brilliant." The man laughed huskily in between little kisses pressed to Mycroft's neck and jaw. Affectionate kisses.

Mycroft pushed himself up, away from the man, off the sofa, and tugged his trousers up. "Yes." He cleared his throat. "It was. Lovely. Thank you."

The man threw one arm behind his head, scooting up to prop himself up on a cushion to grin at Mycroft, naked and sticky from neck to groin. "Yeah. Lovely," he echoed with a wink.

"I'll…just get you a towel and some water," Mycroft said, turning towards the bathroom, "before you go."

He should have just fucked the man in the gazebo and had done with it. Now he had a man in his sitting room and documents to re-file and _affection_ and really this was precisely why Mycroft didn't _do_ this sort of thing. _Absolutely fucking brilliant_ though it may have been.

He took his time tidying himself, collecting himself, before he returned to the sitting room with a clean towel and a glass of water.

His guest was fully dressed. He was standing. He was frowning. And he was holding the Bruce-Partington folder. "This is yours?" he asked Mycroft quietly.

"It certainly isn't yours," Mycroft scowled, flinging the towel away in order to snatch the bloody _top secret_ folder out of the man's hands.

The man jerked the folder back out of his grasp and took a deep breath. His soft brown eyes had gone steely dark. "In that case. Mycroft Holmes. I'm taking you into custody. For the murder of Andrew West."

 

 

***

To be continued…

 


	6. Séance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Halloween Special! A man wants revenge on the person who murdered the woman he loved. Guest starring: Andy Galbraith

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: bit of blood

The trees were thrashing. The wind howled. John's face was slick with rain and his clothes sodden. He'd made certain all Mrs. Hudson's reunion guests were safely on their way to dry cover in their bungalows before he left the gardens. A pair of last stragglers amongst the staff ran past him, shrieking and laughing, then were swallowed up by the darkness. John hunched his shoulders and shivered.

He finally made it through the stinging deluge to his front door, squeezed his wet hand into the wet denim of his pocket for his keys. Inside, he shook his head like a dog, spattering the walls with water, then shut the door and just stood there dripping forlornly on the white-tiled entryway floor.

Mrs. Hudson, retiring. What was John going to do without her, someone to talk to when Sherlock was off in one of his black moods? Someone who truly understood what a colossal arse Sherlock could be. And what a bloody marvel. What was _Sherlock_ going to do without her?

Even with the rain still pounding outside, it seemed too quiet inside John's bungalow. Too still.

How quiet was it inside that enormous white villa of Sherlock's? Was he sulking in silence or—or what? John didn't know, but he felt uneasy.

He had his mobile in his hand already when it chimed.

"Sherlock?"

"John, I need you."

The tile under John's feet trembled as a rumble of thunder swept the island. Sherlock always texted.

"Are you okay?"

"I'm fine. Come to the Jade Villa."

John froze, jacket halfway off one shoulder. "Now?"

"Yes, John, _now_. And bring your medical kit."

Thunder cracked at the same time John's windows flashed white.

The red CALL ENDED light blinked in his hand.

" _Fuck_."

John grabbed his medical bag, put his head down against the storm, and ran.

 

***

Sherlock stood in the doorway of the Jade Villa in his pressed, white, perfectly dry suit frowning at the water puddling at John's feet.

John clenched his teeth. "Mind if I come in?"

"Really, John, you might have bothered with an umbrella."

"Someone had best bloody well be dying here, Sherlock," John dropped his bag on the floor so he could start peeling his way out of the wet cling film his jacket had become, "or I swear to God I will—"

"Shhh!" Sherlock spun John around and gave the jacket an impatient tug down John's arms. " _Client_. And someone is already dead."

"Dead? How? _Here_? When?"

"Murdered." Sherlock held the jacket at his full arm's length and gave it a little shake. It made a wet slapping sound. "London. Three weeks ago."

"A woman was murdered in London three weeks ago."

"Were you deafened by thunder?"

"Will you just fucking give that to me?" John snatched the jacket away from Sherlock, who was curling his lip at it critically. "If a woman was murdered—"

"Shhh!"

John glanced toward the entrance to the sitting room and hushed his voice. "If a woman was murdered in London three weeks ago, Sherlock, then what am I and my medical kit here for now?"

A flicker of lightning lit Sherlock's sharp smile. "A séance."

 

***

"Here we are, Andy." A solemn-eyed, soothing-voiced Sherlock swept through the door from the kitchen carrying a tea tray.

He did look like a waiter in that suit, John thought nastily as he rubbed at the back of his head with a hand towel. The quietly-crackling fire in the hearth wasn't doing much by way of drying him.

Sherlock placed the tray carefully in front of the rumpled, brown-haired, brown-eyed mop of a young man sat next to John at the small, round table—the séance table, they were apparently calling it—in the center of the room. Andy Galbraith's face was soft but set in the flickering light.

"I've prepared a special blend for you in Soo Lin's teapot." Sherlock poured a cup of tea from a russet brown clay pot. His movements were slow and graceful, exaggeratedly so, like his hands were floating.  "And I sensed you might enjoy the Earl Grey this evening, John." He lifted a second white stoneware pot.

John, who always drank Earl Grey, narrowed his eyes.

Sherlock lowered his gaze and inclined his head in modest benevolence as he offered John a teacup.

"We did well to wait for this storm," Sherlock said as he seated himself across from John and Andy and poured himself a cup of tea from the white pot. "The riven sky unsettles the spirits, stirs them."

John pursed his lips at Sherlock, who seemed to be laying it on a bit thick even for _Sherlock_ , while Andy nodded thoughtfully.

"Are you getting anything yet, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock reached across the table and laid a gentle hand on Andy's arm, "I sense _many_ restless entities. But we are also very fortunate to have John Watson with us at this table tonight."

Andy's worried gaze shifted to John.

"John, as you can plainly see," Sherlock gestured at him, "is very much _of the mundane_. But as a conductor of spiritual energy, he is unbeatable."

"Right. Everyone has their gifts," John offered drily.

"It's why his clothes are wet. The water improves his conductivity."

John aimed a kick at Sherlock's shin under the table.

"But even without John here, Andy, I'm sure the call of your heart is guiding Soo Lin to us."

"Yeah," Andy murmured. "Yeah."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John as Andy looked down at the table, blinking rapidly.

John frowned. Andy Galbraith…in a sense, he reminded John of the all fresh-faced boys pouring into Camp Bastion, impossibly young but so determined to believe in something, determined to fight for it. And he reminded John of those same faces the first time they saw one of their mates blown to red meat. His pain was real.

If Sherlock didn't understand that kind of pain, John was glad of it. The mockery underlying Sherlock's performance, even if John was the only one who heard it, he wasn't so glad of.

Sherlock flicked him a puzzled look before he gave Andy's arm another pat. "Drink up, now. We want you to have all your strength."

Andy nodded and picked up his tea cup with a face like he was about to walk hot coals. "It's bitter," he murmured after his first sip.

"Mm, a _very_ special blend. I call it Black Lotus." Sherlock raised his cup. "To Soo Lin Yao."

Andy and John both repeated the name and drank.

A howl of wind rattled the glass in the windows.

"It's time." Sherlock nodded. "Let us join hands."

John pushed his tea cup aside. Galbraith took a deep, shaky breath. His hand in John's was ice cold, damp. Sherlock's was hot and dry. The disparity was strangely disconcerting, like he really was touching two worlds, caught in the middle. The room was completely dark now but for the licks of firelight. John hadn't noticed the overhead light dimming.

"Soo Lin Yao." Sherlock intoned, bowing his head. "We are here this night to bid you: speak! Speak to this man who crosses sea and storm to seek you out in the great beyond. To find the one who _stole_ your life and make of him, in turn," Sherlock looked up, at Andy, "a _dead man_."

Andy slumped forward. His forehead thumped on the black-clothed tabletop, narrowly missing his half-empty tea.

John started, jerking his hands free to reach for Andy. "What the hell?!"

" _Unwanted attention_ ," Sherlock snapped.

" _What_?" John, feeling for Andy's pulse, started again as Andy lifted his head, blinking slowly.

"That's better." Sherlock smiled blandly. "And, yes, you'll want that medical kit now, John."

 

***

John scowled as closed his bag. "Well, he seems _physically_ all right."

"Oh, for God's sake, John, I'm a graduate chemist. I know how to drug a man."

"Why do I not find that statement reassuring?"

Andy was just sitting, blank-eyed and calm.

"And…you're sure he can't hear us?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently, "We've said _unwanted attention_. He's on pause. Not listening."

"Sherlock, he's not a bloody video player. And if you've hypnotized him or whatever, why did you need the drug?"

"Reinforcement. Deeper experience." Sherlock did his John-dismissing hand wave. "And technically he's more of a video recorder. Look, I've allowed you to satisfy your caretaker instincts—"

"I'm not a _caretaker_."

"—so can we please just get _on_ with this now?"

"What are you going to do to him?"

"I'm going to help him, of course."

John sighed and rubbed at his forehead. He was going to have a permanent dent there, soon, he was sure of it. "That's all I'll get out of you, isn't it? Fine. Go on, then."

Sherlock smirked, looked at Andy, and said, " _Dead man_."

Andy's eyes closed.

"The museum is dark…" Sherlock began.

 

***

The museum was dark after hours. Just puddles of sallow light over the display cases and tricky patterns cast by moonlight through the high windows. The sound of Andy's shoe heels striking the gallery floor echoed through the cavernous space with each step.

Vases, statues, sculptures that were familiar to him in the light of day were strange and menacing now. Their curves and lines and faces shifted in shadow. Watchful. He was being watched.

He turned and saw it, the statue draped in ghostly white. The fabric fluttered though the air was not moving.

He heard a skittering sound behind him and spun. The white iron corner brackets in the doorway arch looked like lacy cobwebs. There was nothing beyond the door but darkness.

"You shouldn't be here."

Andy would know her voice anywhere. His heart swelled with love and pain, but he was afraid to look. He hadn't seen her, after. He'd only read the report in the newspaper and imagined. Couldn't stop imagining.

"I had to come." Andy's voice quavered. His hands shook. Damn it, he was here to be _brave_. "I _had_ to come," he said again, more firmly.

"What for?"

"For you." Andy turned. And gasped. Took a step back. The white sheet was stained with blood, seeping slowly from where the statue's—from where _Soo Lin's_ —heart would be.

"I'm dead. There's nothing you can do for me."

"Yes, there is," Andy insisted. He would _not_ be afraid. "I can revenge you!"

Soo Lin laughed, the gauzy covering stretching over her face where a mouth would open. Another pulse of blood bloomed over her heart. "Why would _you_ revenge me? Who do you think you are?"

Andy blinked. "I loved…I _love_ you."

"You love a _phantom_ ," she hissed. Pale hands flew up and tore the blood-soaked sheet away. "You always did."

"No!" Andy shouted, rushing forward, hand outstretched toward her heart. He didn't care. He didn't care what she said. She was beautiful. She used to be so beautiful. So kind. "Soo Lin, _please_ , tell me who did this to you!"

Soo Lin looked at him, eyes dark as night, and spoke in a voice not entirely her own, _"Unwanted attention!"_

 

***

"Unwanted attention!" John said sharply.

Andy's eyes drifted open, went distant. A tear rolled unnoticed down one of his cheeks.

"John, what are you doing?" Sherlock stared at him.

"What am I doing? Sherlock, what the hell are _you_ doing?"

"I told you. I'm _helping_ him."

"You…" John shook his head in disbelief. "You can't actually believe that. Can you?"

Sherlock's eyebrows drew down. "Fine. I'll explain it so even _you_ can understand."

"You do that."

"You heard. He thinks he's going to exact revenge for Soo Lin Yao's murder. Oh, how _romantic_. Do you know who killed Soo Lin Yao, John?"

"Of course I don't know that. How would I know that?"

"Her brother. Her brother the _assassin_ working for a gang of international smugglers." Sherlock waved his hand at Andy. "He wouldn't stand a chance."

"Oh, my God, her _brother_? How do _you_ know that?"

"The point, John, is that the sooner Andy Galbraith gives up this futile, idiotic idea, the better off he will be. Convincing him he does not, in fact, feel as deeply for this woman as he thinks he does will _save his life_. Don't you think that's _kinder_ that sending him to his certain death?"

"No, Sherlock. Of course I don't want him out for revenge, but this," John pointed at the tear tracks on Andy's face, " _this_ isn't _kind_."

"This is the only way," Sherlock growled. His eyes glittered, the color of hail. "She's _gone_. People die. They _go._ It's what _people do_. The sooner he understands that, the better."

"You're wrong."

"I'm _what_?"

"Don't even _try_ to intimidate me. Not this time. I've had more than enough of it." John bared his teeth. "This time, Sherlock, you're _wrong_. And I'm not going to follow. And I'm not going to sit quietly."

Sherlock's eyes went wide, and he drew in a full, outraged, I-will-outdo-this-storm breath.

" _Shut it_ ," John snapped. " _Dead man._ "

 

***

"Andy, I'm so sorry." Soo Lin's face softened suddenly. Her eyes warmed.

Andy wiped the back of his hand across his cheek, swallowed down the _helplessness_ caught in his throat so he could speak again. "Soo Lin?" It came out in a miserable sort of squeak. He wanted to be a lion for her, but he was just a mouse.

She stepped down off her dais, and her breast was no longer bloody and her skin was no longer white. The palm she pressed to his cheek was gentle. "I'm sorry," she said again. "That was cruel and I'm sorry. I was afraid."

Andy reached for her, protective. "Is he here?"

"No," she shook her head and smiled. "That's not what I was afraid of. Andy, I was afraid you would leave me."

"Leave you?" Andy sniffled and almost laughed. "How would _I_ leave _you_? You're the one who left. I know—I know you didn't want to! That's why I _have_ to—"

"No. You don't have to. I don't want revenge. I just want you to stay with me."

Andy swallowed. "Here?"

Soo Lin touched Andy's chest and smiled. "Here."

"I don't understand."

"Tell me. What made you fall in love with me?"

"Everything. Everything about you. The way you're so quiet…but so strong. The…the way you can look like you're laughing and sad at the same time. The way you see beauty in the simplest, smallest things. And I should have told you. I should have told you when I still had the chance."

"It's okay, Andy."

"It's _not_ okay. Some things aren't meant to sit behind glass," Andy said fiercely. "They're made to be touched."

Soo Lin looked at him solemnly for a long moment, then nodded. "That's absolutely right. So don't do it. Don't keep me behind glass."

"I'm not!"

"You are. I know it hurts, but let me stay," she touched his chest again, "here with you. Don't seal me off in rage and despair and _revenge_. Don't leave me there in that cold. Be my heart. My warmth. The gentle man you are. _You_ can still go anywhere, Andy. Take me with you."

"Soo Lin," Andy gasped, and pulled her into his arms.

"Don't leave me," she whispered into his ear.

 

***

"Don't leave me," John whispered.

" _Unwanted attention_."

John opened his eyes. Sherlock was on the far side of the room, his back against the wall by the mantel. He was staring at John, firelight flickering across his face, unearthly, and lighting his white suit gold. John cleared his throat. He felt a little uncertain. A little…exposed. "Well? Do you think…was that enough?"

Sherlock moved wordlessly back to the table and sat. He looked down the whole time, avoiding John's gaze, and held his hands out on the tabletop to indicate they should resume the position in which they'd begun the séance.

John took Andy's hand and then Sherlock's. Andy's hand was loose in his. Sherlock's grip was tight.

The storm outside had quieted. The distant thunder sounded contented, and the rain was a soft buzz.

"Was it good?" Even though Andy couldn't hear them, John felt like he should whisper in the silence Sherlock was keeping. It made him a little angry with himself, but angry as Sherlock made him, John still wanted his approval.

Sherlock looked up. Their eyes locked. Slowly, deliberately, he stroked his thumb along the back of John's hand.

John drew in a sharp breath.

" _The clay is cracking_ ," Sherlock said huskily.

"I…what?"

Andy gasped awake.

Sherlock pulled his hand away and took Andy by the shoulders. "We have you. You're back with us now."

"Oh, my God," Andy panted.

"Her presence was strong."

"You…you heard?"

Sherlock shook his head gravely. "She would speak only to you. Did she tell you? Did she name her killer?"

"No," Andy said. He touched a hand to his chest and smiled a watery little smile. "But it doesn't matter. It doesn't matter."

 

***

"So," John said.

Sherlock nodded. "So."

They stood in the Jade Villa's open front doorway, watching the rain in circle of light cast by the porch light. John had his still-soggy jacket draped over his still-damp shirt sleeve. "I think Andy's going to be okay," he hazarded at last.

"Yes," Sherlock looked away, into the distant darkness. "I think so."

John chewed on his bottom lip for a moment. The back of his hand where Sherlock's thumb had touched his skin felt different from the rest of his body. Like it might be glowing. He glanced down. It wasn't. Sherlock had given no further indication anything unusual, anything _at all_ , had happened between them. He just seemed distracted. "So he was the client you mentioned yesterday?"

"No."

"Okay," John said, and waited a beat. "So we have another client."

"Yes."

"And…are you going to tell me who?"

Sherlock looked thoughtful, but what he was thinking John couldn't even begin to guess. "Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade."

"What's his fantasy?"

Sherlock smirked a little. "To make the _arrest_ of his _life_."

"And you've found a way to make that happen?"

"I have in fact given him the most dangerous man I know."

"Good. I suppose." John looked out into the rain and sighed. Truthfully he didn't care much about the client right now. He didn't care much about whether Sherlock was going to fill him in on the details or not. He was tired. Confused. And cold. He felt like he had a lot to think about, but right now he didn't want to think. He just wanted a hot shower and dry clothes and bed. "Okay. Well. I guess I'll…turn in."

"Here." Sherlock held out his umbrella. "Take this."

"Oh. Er, thanks. But what about you?" John frowned down at the curved bamboo grip in his hand. "Wait. Isn't this Mycroft's?"

Sherlock smiled over his shoulder as he stepped out into the rain.

"Goodnight, John."

 

***

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not *really* a ghost story, but this felt like a special Halloween episode to me! Kin and Kind will pick up next week. Happy Halloween!


	7. The One That Got Away

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kin and Kind concludes as Lestrade reels in a big one, Molly has a talk with John, and Mrs. Hudson leaves Fantasy Island. Guest starring: Mycroft Holmes, Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you may have noticed I'm a week behind my posted schedule. Sorry!! I'm catching up as quickly as I can!

"In that case. Mycroft Holmes. I'm taking you into custody. For the murder of Andrew West."

As the sound of rain poured into the silence between Mycroft and the man whose arms he'd just fallen apart in, Mycroft cleared his face of all expression. "What exactly on those pieces of paper you're holding makes you believe I had anything whatsoever to do with the murder of Andrew West, Mr—" Mycroft closed his eyes. It was he who had insisted on _no names_ , after all. Any resulting humiliation was entirely his to own."I believe you have me at a disadvantage."

"Detective Inspector Lestrade."

"I see." Mycroft did a quick mental sift through the Bruce-Partington case file. Lestrade. He knew the name, of course. The officer in charge of investigating West's murder for New Scotland Yard, insignificant. He'd never bothered to look at the face. An omission based on conceit and one he would clearly have to remedy in future. He narrowed his eyes. "I'm impressed."

"I'm not," Lestrade said grimly.

Mycroft felt his face heat, betraying what he knew was a perfectly-composed cold exterior, and what burned was the knowledge that he had been outplayed. Lestrade had used his attraction, his _inevitable_ attraction, because _look_ at the man, to gain access to his private rooms. His data.

_He_ had been _outplayed_.

"If you will delay my detainment, Detective Inspector, long enough for me to explain the details of the situation, I believe we can clear this matter up to our," Mycroft's mouth twisted bitterly, "mutual satisfaction."

Lestrade hesitated, eyes wary.

"I believe you've already demonstrated your ability to subdue me, if that's a concern."

Lestrade had the grace at least to look away. "Fine. I'll listen."

Mycroft elegantly motioned Lestrade to the sofa where they'd each come gasping into the other's hands. "Please do have a seat. This may take some time."

He couldn't tell Lestrade everything, obviously, but Mycroft explained what he could about the Bruce-Partington case, given what Lestrade would know from having seen the file now as well as the information from his own investigation. Lestrade was thorough, listening intently to every detail and challenging Mycroft on point after point.

It was simpler, easier, once they switched to business mode. Mycroft's defenses were admittedly more difficult to summon outside his familiar environment and attire, his ready armor, but they were firmly back in place now. He had much to chastise himself for in allowing himself to get so sloppy. Literally as well as metaphorically. There would be time for self-recrimination, though. This was the time for mitigation.

It was past dawn, the storm long gone, when Mycroft closed the folder on the table in front of him and said, "Well?"

Lestrade nodded slowly, pensive. "Yeah. Okay."

"Say it, if you please," Mycroft said softly.

"You are not responsible for the murder of Andrew West."

Mycroft inclined his head slightly. "Thank you."

They sat side by side on the sofa, regarding each other in awkward silence.

"Mr. Holmes. I…" Lestrade cleared his throat, shook his head, and glanced at the window. The sky was growing brighter. "I should go. I…have to go get my son."

"So you do have a son."

Lestrade frowned as he stood. "Of course I do." Then his eyes widened in alarm. "You wouldn't—"

Mycroft held up a hand. "That was not a _threat_ , Detective Inspector," he said wearily. "Please. Enjoy your day with your son. You played well and you won. You've no retribution to fear from me."

Lestrade hesitated. "Mycroft…"

"Just go. Our business is concluded. All of it."

Watching Lestrade leave, Mycroft indeed felt defeated.

 

***

The island sparkled in the morning sun in the aftermath of the previous evening's storm. John knew the staff had been up before dawn clearing away fallen leaves and debris from the paths, straightening wind-tattered flower garlands. At Mrs. Hudson's invitation, he'd met her and her niece Molly for breakfast, and the conversation was proving revelatory.

"You were Sherlock's assistant for _two years_?" John marveled. "My God, I need to pick your brain. He…he's so…he's just such…"

"An arsehole?" Molly smiled.

"Exactly. But also…"

"Amazing."

_Sherlock's thumb, brushing his hand_. John lowered his chin and his eyes to take a sip of tea and half-sighed, "Yeah."

"You, too, huh?" Molly said gently. Her expression was far too knowing. As was Mrs. Hudson's.

"Christ," John blinked. Flushed. "Is it _that_ obvious?"

"It is to someone who's been there."

"Oh." John's stomach dropped with a rush of jealousy, even as his gaze sharpened with curiosity. "So you and he…"

"No. Just me." Molly's face was wry, and Mrs. Hudson reached over and gave her arm a reassuring squeeze. "It's why I left the island…in the end. Unrequited love. But it wasn't, you know, his _fault._ I was always too much of a romantic, I think."

John frowned.

"But it's fine now," Molly went on. " _Really_ , Aunt Sissy, stop looking at me like that."

"Has he been to see you yet, dear?"

Molly flipped her butter knife over, fiddling. "Well…no, but…I know how busy he is."

"Hm," Mrs. Hudson frowned.

"It's _fine_ , Aunt Sissy," Molly said, sounding more resolute. "I'm here for _you_ , not _him_. I'm quite happy at home now. It was a good thing, in the end, him sending me away."

"He sent you _away_?"

"More or less," Molly shrugged. "I…I don't know, maybe it was fair. I wasn't focused on the work anymore. I was a bit more focused on my own fantasies," she smirked. "But I have my own work now."

"Pathologist, you said, right?" John popped a last morsel of blueberry muffin into his mouth.

"It's quiet work, but it _means_ something, you know? I think…" Molly bit her lip thoughtfully. "I think that may have been the hardest part of leaving, actually. Now that I think about it. Here, working with Sherlock, I felt like I was part of something _bigger_. I felt…special."

John swallowed hard. He'd never said it out loud, or even inside his own head, but…yes. That was exactly how he felt working here. Except it wasn't the work itself, it was _Sherlock_. It was a package deal. It was having the notice of a man like Sherlock, someone who could be so focused, so _brilliant._ Feeling like, even for a short time, his focus was on _John_.

John used to _matter_. He was a soldier and a doctor and _his_ work mattered. And then he'd been shot and just like that he didn't matter anymore. When Sherlock had hired him it was ostensibly for those same skills, and John had finally felt hope again, like he could once more be a part of something bigger, just like Molly said. Except he hardly ever did anything here a doctor or a soldier would do. So what did Sherlock want him for? Maybe it was _John himself_ that was special. But how could that be? How could that possibly be?

John traced his own thumb across the back of his hand.

Had Molly thought herself special the same way?

"So now I'm a…a team of one, really, but I—oh." Molly straightened in her chair suddenly.

John turned and followed her wide-eyed look to see Sherlock standing in the entry of the dining pavilion. John started, guilty, like he'd been caught doing something wrong, but converted the motion into a wave. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at the three of them and then he turned on his heel and walked away, shoes flashing white with each quick step across the rain-jeweled grass. When John turned back, a welcoming smile was fading from Molly's face.

"Yeah," she sighed, "that's how I remember him."

John nodded. "A _complete_ arsehole."

Molly tilted her head, "But those trousers still look quite nice."

They exchanged a look and John snorted a laugh.

Mrs. Hudson plucked her serviette from her lap and placed it firmly on the table. "If you two will excuse me," she said, pushing her chair back rather abruptly, "I have something to attend to."

"So…I have to ask…" John began, oddly emboldened by their shared dismissal, as he watched Mrs. Hudson walk away, watched Sherlock's curls disappear into the shade of a tree-lined trail.

Molly made an encouraging noise.

"You and Mrs. Hudson have known Sherlock a long time. Has there ever been _anyone_? A woman, a man, any sort of relationship?"

"I don't know, John. Not that I know of. I don't think…" Molly gave John a sympathetic look. "I don't think he feels things _that_ way. Do you?"

"Sometimes I do, but then sometimes…yeah," John sighed. "I have no idea."

"He's hard to love," Molly said wistfully, "our Sherlock."

John hadn't said it before, hadn't really even allowed himself to think _that word_ in direct connection with his feelings for Sherlock, but now it seemed as easy and as inevitable and as painfully bright as the sun rising. "And far too easy to love."

 

***

Mycroft adjusted his tie, checked his tie pin, checked that his watch was properly situated in his waistcoat pocket. He'd put himself together, but he hadn't slept yet, and he hadn't been able to leave the thought of Detective Inspector Lestrade alone.

He had admitted defeat, and that rankled. He knew Sherlock's hand was in this, but it was Lestrade who had outplayed him, Lestrade who had carried out the plan perfectly. Seduced him to gain access to his files, taken advantage of his tropical island lassitude. If there was one thing Mycroft Holmes knew, however, it was how to turn any situation—even a defeat—to his advantage.

He knocked on the door to Lestrade's bungalow.

The door opened and Mycroft's gaze dropped from where he was expecting to see Lestrade's face to a head of unruly dark curls and a pair of dark brown eyes. Eyes like his father's.

"Dad!" the boy bellowed over his shoulder. "I think it's a salesman!"

"Archie!" Lestrade barreled around the corner, a wet dish towel in one hand. "I told you _never_ open the door—Mycroft!"

"Detective Inspector," Mycroft nodded coolly. "Please forgive the intrusion."

Archie grinned. "See, he's not a stranger, is he? You called him _Mycroft_."

"Not the point, cheeky." Lestrade swatted the boy affectionately with the towel, but his eyes on Mycroft were wary. "He's a stranger to you and we're going to have a talk about this later."

"Fine." Archie sighed, all shoulders and drama, then brightened. "Can I go find Molly?"

"Miss Hooper, you mean?"

"She said _Molly_."

Lestrade looked Mycroft up and down, pursing his lips. "Yeah, maybe that's a good idea. She should be—"

"I _know_ where she is, Dad!"

"Go on, then."

The boy whooped and bolted past them.

Lestrade sighed fondly. "He knows everything."

Mycroft blinked away a pang of memory as Archie ran off, all curls and confidence. The similarity with Sherlock-that-was, his beloved little brother, was almost painfully obvious, and he tried not to be thrown by it. "You…know Molly Hooper?"

"Yeah. We just met. And you apparently know everyone. Small world and that," Lestrade said, eyes narrowing. "Can I help you with something? Is this a…business call, or…?"

"That is precisely what it is. I've come to offer you a job."

Lestrade blinked. "A job."

"Whilst your conclusions about the Bruce-Partington case may have been incorrect, Detective Inspector, they were extremely well-reasoned based on the knowledge you had at hand. You are clear-headed and thorough, and…once personal concerns are set aside, which as you see is a very simple and easy matter for me…not unpleasant to work with. You pursued your goal of an arrest for Andrew West's murder with impressive determination and in the end you did not apologize for any…actions…taken in that pursuit. I appreciate your methods. We could use a man like you."

"My _methods_."

"You gained access to me and my information. You got results."

Lestrade stared at him. "You invited me home with you."

"Indeed," Mycroft frowned, "I did not make your task terribly difficult."

"And who exactly is the _we_ that could use me."

"You saw the files."

"Right, so don't you have…people? You must have a lot of people. Why would you need _me_?"

"It is always beneficial to have more than one set of options available to address any given situation. You would, of course, continue in your current employment with New Scotland Yard. I would ask nothing of you that interfered with those duties. I would simply request…and provide…information that would enhance your effectiveness in that role."

"Such as?"

"Such as…" Mycroft raised his chin, confident in the value of his bait, "the identity of the man who actually killed Andrew West."

Lestrade huffed a breath. "Archie was right again."

"I beg your pardon?"

"There _is_ a salesman at the door."

Mycroft's smile was tight and smug and not at all affected by the appreciative glint in Lestrade's eyes as he offered his hand on the agreement. "Shall we settle the details, then, Detective Inspector Lestrade?"

 

***

"Sherlock Holmes," Mrs. Hudson closed Sherlock's office door behind her firmly, her face set with resolve, "I want a word with you."

Sherlock looked up from his desk and cocked an eyebrow. "Goodbye?"

Mrs. Hudson sighed. "I don't know why it is I'll miss you so much. I really don't."

"Neither do I." Sherlock leaned back in his chair. "So spare me the sentimental babble you're no doubt here to spew."

"You are going to stop avoiding Molly Hooper."

Sherlock scowled and shuffled some papers. Dramatically. People were often distracted random fluttering, he'd found. "I'm not _avoiding_ —"

"Whatever else she may have felt for you, Sherlock Holmes, she is still your friend and she deserves better from you."

"I don't have _friends,_ " Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"I wonder why not," Mrs. Hudson said wearily. "Sherlock, I know this sort of thing is difficult for you—"

"And here we go with the sentimental babble."

"—but about your John Watson—"

Sherlock's head jerked around, his eyes narrowing. "What about him?"

Mrs. Hudson took a deep breath and opened her mouth to speak, then closed it again. She gave him a long, thoughtful look and then said, carefully, "He wants to care for someone."

"He's a doctor."

"That's not what I mean."

"Then say what you mean," Sherlock snapped, "or get out. Some of us have work to do."

"Sherlock, dear, I think you know what I mean," Mrs. Hudson said gently. _Annoyingly_ gently, and he was really doing his best to be abrasive, damn the woman. "Is it the same with John as it was with Molly, Sherlock? Do you want him to leave?"

Sherlock's chest tightened, painfully, like someone had knocked the air out of him. "Of course I don't want him to leave. Is he leaving? Why is he leaving?"

"Calm down, he's not leaving. But, Sherlock, if you _want_ him, perhaps it's time you gave a bit of thought to…what John's fantasy might be."

Sherlock frowned. "John's fantasy."

"And _perhaps_ it's time you pulled that clever head out of your arse, young man, and started behaving a bit more decently towards all of us."

"Decent," Sherlock sniffed dismissively, but his disdain lacked potency. "Who cares about decent? _John_ doesn't care about decent."

"Particularly towards me. Because you will miss me."

"No one else knows how to refill the lubricant fountain," Sherlock muttered. "It's quite inconvenient."

"Because you love me. And I love you. Very much, dear."

Sherlock turned his head away. "Sentimental babble."

"Unless you want more of it, you'd best give me a hug."

Sherlock shambled around his desk as sullenly as he could and gave Mrs. Hudson a very, very long hug.

 

***

"Miss Hooper," Lestrade said, delighted, as Molly met them on the path that led toward the lagoon. "Are you on the same plane back as us?"

"I guess I am," Molly smiled back. "All us Londoners together. And it's Molly."

"Hi, Molly!" Archie dashed up clutching a somewhat squashed orchid and an orange flip-flop. "Will you tell me about some more dead people whilst we're flying?"

"Er," Molly glanced at Lestrade, who rolled his eyes.

"Just keep it, you know…"

"Age-appropriate."

"Right."

"Ugh," said Archie. "Dad, look, it's your salesman friend."

Lestrade followed Archie's pointing finger across the lawn, where Mycroft Holmes stood stiff and straight by the dock, squinting into the sunlight. He was wearing that snug little three-piece suit again and he had an umbrella hooked over one arm. "He's not a salesman, Archie. And he's not my friend. Exactly."

"You know Mycroft Holmes?" Molly blinked.

Lestrade smirked. "Small world."

"He _says_ he knows him from work," Archie tugged Molly's sleeve and pulled her down, voice conspiratorial, "but _really_ he _likes_ him."

"Archie!"

Molly's eyes got very wide. " _Mycroft?_ "

"Archie, I'm going to hang you upside down in Nana's root cellar," Lestrade said into his hands.

"Cool!"

"I don't…it's not…"

"Hi, Mycroft!" Archie yelled, dashing across the lawn toward a startled-looking Mycroft, who began looking around a little wildly, like he was hoping for rescue.

"Sorry," Lestrade apologized when he and Molly caught up, "I think we're a little…excited to be flying out. "

"Not at all, Detective Inspector. I have learned a great deal about the cross-pollination methods of Orchidaceae in quite a short time."

Archie waved his orchid proudly.

"Miss Hooper," Mycroft nodded to Molly.

"Hello, Mycroft, it's, er…good to see you again. You aren't flying with us, are you?"

"No," Mycroft sniffed disdainfully at the little yellow plane. "I have my own transportation. I simply came for a quick word with Detective Inspector Lestrade before his journey home."

"Yes," Molly nodded. "I understand you have a _business relationship_."

"He _likes_ him," Archie chirped happily.

"For fuck's sake!"

"Dad! There are kids!"

"We _do_ have a business…and I'm not supposed to _talk about_ …bloody hell." Lestrade grimaced.

"You should hire Molly," Archie said. "She solves crimes, too."

Mycroft was looking more ill at ease by the moment, but his eyes shifted thoughtfully to Molly.

"Mycroft, Mr. Holmes, I think we should have that quick word you mentioned. Now. And you two…shut up."

"But you're leaving."

"I said _shut it_."

Mycroft's eyebrows drew down, but he followed Lestrade to a more private section of the garden, out of hearing distance from Molly, Archie, and the staff who were beginning to load their luggage onto the plane.

"Is there a problem, Detective Inspector?" Mycroft asked coolly. "Apart from your apparently having immediately informed everyone in your acquaintance of your top secret employment?"

"No. Well, yes." Lestrade sighed. "If I'm not already sacked after that…I'm not sure you're going to want to employ me. Because I'm about to be honest with you."

Mycroft's frown deepened. "Go on."

Lestrade sighed, because he _really_ did want this job. He would have an insider track on some major crimes, be able to make a _real_ difference, and he'd be able to call on additional resources when it was necessary. And Lestrade sighed because the sunlight was bringing out auburn threads in Mycroft's dark hair. And because he'd never felt as horrible as when, after some of the best sex he could remember, after one of the most immediate, _incredible_ connections he could remember, he'd picked up a piece of paper off the floor that meant he had to end that connection. And because he fancied he could still feel the pressure where long fingers had grasped his thighs, and now those long fingers were resting gently on the curved handle of an umbrella right in front of him.

He took a deep breath.

"You think I seduced you to get that Bruce-Partington file. But I didn't. I didn't know who you were or that that file existed. I just…I was waiting for you, after, and it was _right there_. But then I put everything together, the missing plans, Andrew West, and…" Lestrade shrugged. "And then a fantastic night turned into a terrible night. Even though," he snorted a wry laugh, "that's what I came to the island for. An arrest. And I _do_ want to apologize. I'm the kind of man who apologizes. I'm sorry that you thought I was…a dick. Because I really, really…had a wonderful time. So…there it is. You were impressed that I'm a manipulative liar. Some kind of operative. But I'm just…a bloke who thought you were hot. As fuck. And…still do, actually. Probably more now."

"I…see," Mycroft blinked.

"But you know what," Lestrade scowled, "actually, I'm _not_ just a bloke who thinks you're hot. I may not have solved this Andrew West thing, but I'm a _good_ cop. I _am_ all those things you think I am. I'm smart and I'm thorough and I work _hard_ and so even though I'm not some sort of…Mata Hari…you _should_ still hire me. I want you to hire me. I want this work, I _care_ and I could make a difference and I…I promise not to, you know, hump your leg in staff meetings or anything and I…fuck." He slapped his hands over his face and dragged them down. "This is the worst interview I've ever given."

"We don't really have staff meetings," Mycroft said.

"That's the part you're going to call me on."

"But I think we can still come to an arrangement, Detective Inspector."

"Yeah?" Lestrade hesitantly accepted Mycroft's offered handshake. "Wait. For the…job or the…humping?"

Mycroft ran his thumb over the back of Lestrade's hand. "It is always beneficial to have more than one set of options available."

"Yeah," Lestrade breathed. "We definitely can come to an arrangement."

 

***

"See?" Archie crowed to Molly after one look at Mycroft's and Lestrade's faces when they arrived back at the dock. "I told you."

Molly was grinning at the two of them like they were a puppy on Christmas morning. Lestrade thought he was probably grinning back just as ridiculously.

"Miss Hooper," Mycroft said sternly.

Molly winced. "Sorry, it's just, you both look, you know—"

"How _would_ you like to join a secret government crime fighting team?"

"Yes!" Archie yelled.

Molly's face lit. Like Christmas morning.

 

***

Having said his goodbyes already, John stood back on the lawn and watched Sherlock embrace first Molly and then Mrs. Hudson, bringing them both to tears with whatever words of farewell he had chosen. And they looked like _happy_ tears. John resisted the temptation to rub his eyes in disbelief. Which was a good thing, because he might have otherwise missed the silver-haired man who launched himself at Sherlock for a hug of his own. Sherlock stiffened, but allowed the man to clap him on the back several times.

Eventually, after much waving and sniffling, everyone was on the plane and headed for home.

"Who was _that_?" John asked Sherlock. "New friend?"

Sherlock tugged his white jacket down and sniffed. He looked a little pink, like maybe he'd gotten too much affection on him, or possibly over-exerted himself. "I mentioned our client."

"Right. Our client that I never met. Lestrade? Wanted to make an arrest?"

"Correct."

"And you gave him the most dangerous man you know."

Sherlock's smile twitched. "Correct."

"Sherlock, do I have to hold you down for details?" John threatened, completely cheerfully, because Sherlock was smiling again and everyone had left _happy_ and it seemed the storm was long gone. "Because I will. Do you really want that?"

It was possible Sherlock pinked even more. Or maybe it was just the warm sunlight on his skin.

"I gave Lestrade my brother, Mycroft."

"Lestrade…arrested your brother?"

"He tried," Sherlock grinned, looking extraordinarily pleased with himself. "Detective Inspector Lestrade wanted to make an arrest. For a very specific case, the murder of Andrew West. But he didn't have the resources. Nor did he have the funds to pay our usual fee for a fantasy. So we made a trade. He told me who killed Soo-Lin Yao. In exchange I led him to my brother, who is in fact neck-deep in the Andrew West affair, although not, sadly, the murderer. Lestrade thought he was, though, and tried to arrest him, which led them into a long discussion resulting in Lestrade's employment by Mycroft. So he will, in fact, solve the Andrew West murder as well as many other cases. Oh, and they also slept together, and as much as the thought repels me, will continue to do so, which means my brother will no longer need to lounge around this island annoying me whenever he starts to feel lonely but refuses to admit he's feeling lonely. And I very likely will have a new, hug-happy brother-in-law at some point in the near future. Mycroft, no doubt under some sort of residual oxytocin influence, has also made an offer of employment to Molly Hooper, who now has _her_ wish fulfilled."

"Being a part of something special." John blinked. "And you…planned all this."

Sherlock looked like he was about to actually burst out of his white suit with pride.

John saw no reason not to encourage that from happening. "Sherlock. You…are amazing. You are the most incredible, amazing…amazing…I need more words for how amazing you are."

"Brilliant?"

"There you go," beamed John.

Sherlock was definitely getting pinker. "I know what people want," he shrugged.

"Well. You are brilliant, after all," John grinned.

"I know what _you_ want, John."

John sucked in a breath at the sudden intensity in Sherlock's eyes. Those Caribbean-clear eyes that John had fallen into and drowned inside and no wonder he couldn't breathe. "I…yeah, I know you do. This job…"

"No."

"Then…what?" John licked his lips. There had been staff moving through the gardens, birds singing, distant music, but now it felt like there was no one there but the two of them and all John could hear was the sound of the sea. "What do I want, Sherlock?"

When Sherlock put his big hands on John's shoulders, held him steady, and stepped closer, John's heart almost stopped.

"I'll take care of it. Don't you worry about a thing, John," Sherlock said gravely. And he smiled and walked away.

***


	8. What If

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock's newest guest on the island comes as a personal surprise to John. Guest starring: James Sholto

"Smiles, everyone!" Sherlock barked at the staff assembling at the lagoon. Several of them flashed nervous looks at him, as though he might be behaving strangely. More strangely than usual, that is. Sherlock glared back at them and they scurried, bright smiles plastered across their faces. If he was being especially demanding this particular morning, which he _wasn't_ , because his standards were _always_ exacting, it was only because this was an _important_ guest. He'd made that quite clear.

There were extra flowers in the garlands draping the rails of the welcome dock and floating in the fountain. Less drumming, more lilting melody for the music. The hors d'oeuvres were all sweet.

Torchlight would have been more romantic. It was a pity their guest was arriving in the daytime rather than the evening— _stupid_ , Sherlock berated himself, he should have thought of that. In his defense, though, he _had_ pulled this fantasy together in record time, handling _all_ the tedious logistics without assistance.

The busyness had its benefits. It had helped Sherlock avoid thinking past what happened _after_ the fantasy was fulfilled. There would be time for him to adapt to that. He would have to adapt.

The plane was arriving, humming across the water. Sherlock could feel its vibration in his chest. John was walking across the lawn to meet him, and Sherlock could feel a different sort of vibration in his chest from the smile John gave him. The morning light brought out the gold in John's hair, so perhaps daytime had been the better choice after all.

"You've certainly got everyone on their toes this morning," John said when he reached Sherlock's side. He had that partly-inquisitive, partly-amused look on his face that always made Sherlock want to come up with new ways to impress him at the same time he was wondering what John thought was so funny about him. John's face did that a lot: two emotions at once. It was confusing. Sherlock didn't like feeling confused.

"Yes, well, we have an important guest." Sherlock cast a critical eye over John's appearance, brushed his lapels down, pushed a stray strand of his sun-caught hair back into place. "We want him to feel welcome, don't we?"

"I thought they were _all_ important and…what are you doing?" John ducked away from Sherlock's grooming.

Sherlock managed to center John's tie before his hands were knocked away. "You'll thank me."

"Okay, now I'm almost worried about who's getting off that plane if _you're_ this anxious to impress him."

"Oh, he's already impressed, John. And rightly so."

"Then what's so special about him? What's his fantasy?"

The plane cut its engines at the dock.

"This isn't his fantasy. It's yours."

John blinked up at him. "What?"

Sherlock nodded toward the plane.

A man stepped out onto the dock, standing tall and stern. The morning light brought out the gold in his hair, as well.

"Oh my god," John breathed.

"I told you I'd take care of everything, John."

" _James_."

"Major Sholto," Sherlock said. "Welcome to Fantasy Island."

John rushed forward, away from Sherlock's side, to clasp the man's hand in both of his. "Oh, it's _good_ to see you, sir."

Major Sholto's scarred face softened. John beamed. There. Clasped hands. Warm eyes. The fantasy was going to work out perfectly.

Sherlock wondered, that being the case, why he suddenly felt like he might be sick.

 

***

At Sherlock's request, John saw James Sholto to his villa, just across the courtyard from John's own bungalow.

They exchanged the sort of pleasantries along the walk two people exchanged when a much more significant conversation was looming, the flight, the weather, the layout of the island, but almost as soon as Sholto's suitcase hit the floor John couldn't hold back his real questions any longer.

He started with an easy one. "What are you doing here, James?"

Sholto's smile was faint. "I'm visiting an old friend."

_Old friend_.

Major James Sholto had been one of the mostremarkable military men John had ever served with. Efficient. Intelligent. Confident. He'd earned John's respect and admiration quickly. Their friendship had taken longer to develop, but gradually John began to see the man beneath the Major, the dry sense of humor, and a sort of curious wistfulness that had drawn John even closer. John had liked that man, James, his friend.

Very much.

_Maybe_ , John had begun to think, those times when their warm and smiling looks at one another lingered just a bit longer than could be considered _friendly_. _Maybe there's something here_.

Then Sholto's mission had gone bad. And even though Sholto came out of it alive—was the only one who came out of it alive—John had lost a fellow soldier, a friend, and a _maybe_ all in one horrible day. James Sholto had lost much more, including every eager new soldier under his command.

"I did try to get in touch," John said quietly. The skin of the left side of Sholto's face, his neck, his hand, was thickened with burn scars. "After."

"I know." Sholto looked away. "I…couldn't."

John just nodded, because he understood _couldn't_. There had been a long time when he _couldn't_ either. Couldn't function. Couldn't bear the eyes of the people who knew him before. Couldn't understand his place in the world he had been expelled to. Before he'd met Sherlock.

"I'm glad you're here now," John said with all the warmth and acceptance he could put into the few words.

Sholto met John's eyes again with a look so hopeful it made John's breath catch.

 

***

After watching John gaze at Sholto like some sort of adoring puppy (clasped hands, warm eyes), Sherlock wanted nothing more than to retreat to the privacy of his own villa as soon as he could, but there was _island business_ to attend to. So much _island business_. _Talking_ and being around _people_. How had Mrs. Hudson stayed so bloody _cheerful_ all the time?

Sherlock was doing the _right thing._ All the right things. He was taking care of the island. He was taking care of John.

Wasn't doing the right thing meant to feel _good_? Did being noble always make people feel like they wanted to throw everything they owned across the room just to see it _smash_ , or shoot holes in the walls, or just…curl up in bed and never get up again?

Probably. That was why people were so seldom noble.

But then, Sherlock supposed he wasn't being so _very_ noble. This Sholto business served Sherlock just as much as it served John. More, really. After all, it was Sherlock who had the most to lose.

He couldn't lose John.

That was what was important here. That was the only thing that was important.

(Clasped hands, warm eyes.)

It was entirely possible, however, he had made a mistake in estimating his ability to remain unaffected. Sherlock reminded himself once again that _busy_ was good for now.

The staff treated him as they always did—like an oddity. An oddity who paid their generous salaries. An oddity whose abilities they respected, perhaps even admired, but an oddity nonetheless. It helped, actually. It reminded him of his place: Sherlock Holmes was _different_. Sherlock Holmes stayed out of the pit.

 

***

"And he said, 'Oh, no…I'm taking that back to base.'" Sholto's old grin flashed, brief and shy, and left a sparkle in his gentle, aquamarine eyes.

"He didn't." John laughed and slapped the table with the palm of his hand, then reached over and laid his hand on Sholto's arm. "I've missed your stories."

Sholto's arm tensed, but he didn't withdraw it. "And I've missed you, Watson." He looked down. The late afternoon sun caught his pale lashes. "John."

They had a little table in a private corner of the island's outdoor bar and cafe, although privacy was hardly required—they were the only people there apart from a few discreet staff. A young woman in a flowered skirt was just starting to light the torches lining the open terrace.

"James…I don't want to pry, but…your fantasy…Sherlock hasn't told me anything."

Sholto leaned back with a little _ah_ , tapped his finger on the side of his empty beer bottle. "You haven't guessed?"

John frowned and shook his head. "No. I don't…well, I don't know you that well any more."

"Have I really changed that much?"

"Of course you've changed." John shrugged. "So have I. Everything has changed. Things are _different_ now. Sherlock—"

"Yes. Sherlock." Sholto's smile was wry.

John blinked.

"Excuse me, sirs." The woman in the flowered skirt stepped up to the table, having exchanged her torch lighter for a tray bearing a bottle of champagne and two flutes. In typical island fashion, the tray was decorated with bright flowers. "Compliments of Mr. Holmes."

"Sherlock? Is he here?" John twisted around in his seat, scanning the bar, the tree line for a white suit.

"No, sir, but he left instructions. One moment and I'll bring a candle for the table." Their attendant smiled as the set the tray down between them. "More romantic."

"Romantic?" John looked at Sholto.

Sholto's mouth twisted. "Now have you guessed what my fantasy might have been?"

"Ah." John took an uneasy breath. "James, I—"

"It's alright, John," Sholto said softly. "I understand."

"Understand what? I haven't said anything yet."

"I understand about Sherlock Holmes."

John swallowed. "What about him?"

Sholto chuckled a little sadly. "I've enjoyed _your_ stories today as well. And what…or rather, whom, was every single one of them about?"

John cleared his throat. "I…hadn't quite…realized that."

"And the look on your face, just now, when you thought he might be nearby…" Sholto reached out this time, laid a hand on John's arm. "I've seen that look before. I've seen it before…for me."

"Yeah," John said roughly, "you have. James, you and I—"

"Were a long time ago. A lifetime, it seems. And now…you're in love with him."

"It's true. I am. And he's sent me on a romantic dinner…with you." John's smile was forced, forlorn. "He doesn't want me. Not like that."

"Does he know how you feel?"

"I've been pretty bloody obvious about how I feel, I think."

"You _think_?" Sholto shook his head. "The John Watson I know would be _sure_."

"I'm not the John Watson—"

"Of course you bloody are. John, some things are _not_ different now. You _are_ that John Watson. You always will be." Sholto drew back and folded his arms, giving John an appraising look. "And I think your Mr. Holmes and I are not, in the end, so dissimilar."

"What do you mean?"

"Look at me, John. What do you think most people see when they look at me? Who am I, _what_ am I, to lay claim to your affections?"

"No." John shook his head immediately. Scarred and saddened as his old friend was, different as he was, he was still _his_ James Sholto. His friend, his might-have-been. John was still drawn to him. Still loved him.

"And given that I am… _what I am_ …I wonder that I even dared to hope."

"James! It's not like that at all—"

"Watson," Sholto snapped.

John's jaw locked, his shoulders pressed down at the tone of command.

"I have listened to your stories about Sherlock Holmes all day. Really listened. And I have spoken to him at length myself when we arranged this visit. How often, in our association, have I misjudged people?"

John's eyebrows raised slowly. "Never."

"So trust me when I say that _we are not dissimilar_ ," Sholto repeated gravely, "your Mr. Holmes and I. We simply wear our scars in different places. And I…if _I_ thought I couldn't have you myself, I would want to see you happy. With someone you could love. I think your Mr. Holmes would want the same for you. Who is he, after all, to lay claim to your affections?"

"He's…the best man I know."

"You _think_ he knows that."

John stared.

"Watson," Sholto nodded. " _John_. Go be sure."

 

***

Finally, Sherlock was out of distractions. The sun was low in the sky and the island quiet as he made his way back to his villa. He had not heard from John all day. Not that he had expected to. John's attention, he was sure, was otherwise engaged. It was a good match, John Watson and James Sholto. A common past. Mutual understanding and affection. Sholto was, despite the public view of the doomed mission in which he'd sustained his injuries, a good man.

The villa felt empty. Hollow.

At least he could take off his costume now. All of it, the clothes, the expressionless face, the indifference. Sherlock kicked off his white shoes a little more viciously than was necessary just to hear the noise they made when they hit the entryway wall, which turned out to be a fairly unsatisfying thud. The vase, he suspected, would do better. He grabbed it by its neck, swore just as viciously as he thought _was_ necessary, and pulled back his arm for a throw.

"Careful," said a soft voice from just inside the open door to Sherlock's office, "your guests might talk if they saw you smashing up your own island."

"John!"

John stepped out from the doorway. His face was doing that confusing thing again with the antithetical emotions: he looked angry and he looked…nervous. "Something bothering you, Sherlock?"

"No."

"You want to put that down, then?"

Sherlock frowned at the vase in his hand and lowered it slowly back to its spot on the entryway table. "Why aren't you with Sholto?"

"That's where you want me? With Sholto?"

"I told you, John, this is—"

"Right. _My_ fantasy."

"Yes."

John folded his arms and walked toward Sherlock. Slowly, his eyes cast thoughtfully down. "Because you _know_ what I want."

"Yes. I do."

"And what is that, exactly?"

Sherlock stared. "John, I don't understand why you're—"

John stopped directly in front of Sherlock. His hair was still ruffled from the afternoon breeze and he smelled like salt air. "I want you to tell me. Exactly. What it is you think I want."

"A relationship, obviously. You want a relationship."

"Yeah," John licked his lips. "I do. So what's James doing here?"

Sherlock frowned. "You want a _relationship_."

"Spell it out, Sherlock. You know how slow I am to catch on sometimes," John said tightly, looking not-at-all slow or uncertain. In fact he looked _quite_ certain.

Sherlock suddenly wished he still had his shoes on. They were part of the suit. He needed the full suit. He felt…exposed in that light of certainty in John's dark eyes. "If." He swallowed thickly. "If I _brought_ you a relationship, you would never need to go looking for one. Do you see? You wouldn't need to go…anywhere else…for what you want."

John nodded. "Like Molly. Like Mrs. Hudson."

"Yes," Sherlock whispered.

"I thought once I might fall in love with James Sholto."

Sherlock closed his eyes. "Yes."

"But I didn't."

Sherlock drew in a deep breath. "John, you could still—"

"I fell in love with you."

Sherlock stood there, frozen in the middle of his last word. The tip of his tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. His eyes wouldn't blink. He had on a white suit and no shoes. He didn't have shoes. Everything was quiet. And he _thought_ John had just said… He shouldn't move. He should just…stay very still.

"I want a relationship _with you_."

Sherlock didn't move.

"Because I am in love _with you_."

Sherlock didn't even breathe.

John did. In fact, he took a very deep breath. "So now I've…said that. And…Sherlock…are you alright?"

Sherlock nodded.

"You…heard all that, right? For _sure_."

Sherlock nodded.

And John smiled. Why was he smiling?

"Okay. Good. So…here's what's going to happen next. While you…process that…I'm going to go back to my _friend_ James, because he's my _friend_ and he's come a long way. We're going to talk some more. Like friends. Then he's going to leave. I'll schedule his return flight for tomorrow morning. And I'm going to stay here. On the island. With you. Because I'm in love with you." He looked at Sherlock expectantly.

Sherlock nodded.

He stood there for a long time after John left, and even though he was by himself, the villa didn't feel empty anymore.

Oh. Maybe that was why John was smiling.

 

***

Sherlock met Sholto at the dock the next morning.

"Major Sholto."

Sholto gave him an extremely bland look. "Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock cleared his throat. "I must…apologize."

"For what, exactly?" Sholto asked drily, reminding Sherlock very much of John.

"For being unable to fulfill your fantasy. It is the first time I have failed a client. And although I cannot pretend to be…regretful…on this particular occasion for…personal reasons, I nevertheless believe I do owe you an apology as your host."

"Mr. Holmes, John Watson gave me the impression you paid careful attention to the phrasing of your clients' requests."

Sherlock frowned. "Yes. You wanted to find out—"

"If I still had the chance of a relationship with John Watson," Sholto said calmly. "And now I know that I do not. The request I made of you has been fulfilled. And for that I thank you, Mr. Holmes. Wondering what might have been can be a terrible thing. It is…good to move forward, is it not?"

"It is." Sherlock looked across the lawn. "Is John not here?"

"We've said our goodbyes." Sholto held out his hand. "Take care, Mr. Holmes."

"And you, Major Sholto."

"I mean of him."

Sherlock, to his horror, felt himself blush. "I…think it's the other way round."

Sholto chuckled. "Yes. That sounds like the John Watson I know."

 

***

John was waiting by the fountain.

Sherlock stood in front of him, pulse racing.

"Are we speaking again?" John asked, all gold and smiling and _wonderful_ in the sunlight.

"If by _we_ you mean _me_ , then yes," Sherlock said primly. And blushed. _Again_. John Watson was in love with him. And it was _confusing_. And _wonderful_. And Sherlock _didn't know_ what was going to happen next.

John's lips twitched. "Good. Because, Sherlock," he took a step forward, brushed his fingers under one of Sherlock's white lapels. "I'm about to ask you a very important question."

 

***


	9. Coming True

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock answers John's big question in the Season Finale!

Sherlock blinked. " _My_ fantasy?"

"Yes. That's the question."

"But," Sherlock tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, looking at John as though he'd said something incredibly puzzling, "why?"

"Because this is Fantasy Island!"

"I'm aware of that, John. I'm the owner."

John leaned in close and lowered his voice, even though they were all alone at the lagoon now that the plane had borne Sholto away. "Well, today," John ran his finger along the edge of Sherlock's lapel, noting with satisfaction the way Sherlock's attention was caught by the touch, "you're a client. This island is dedicated to _your_ fantasy, and a high-ranking member of the staff is at your full disposal for…fulfillment."

Sherlock blinked again. Twice. "What sort of…fulfillment?"

"Which brings us back to the question at hand." John licked his lips and raised his eyebrows, questioning. "What do you want? Or…not want? With…me."

"I…want…" Sherlock started. And then…nothing.

If the breeze wasn't playing with Sherlock's curls, John might have thought Sherlock had actually frozen in time, he had gone so still, with the same faraway look in his eyes he'd had when John had told him he loved him.

"Sherlock?"

Sherlock started. "No."

"No?"

"I shouldn't have to tell you. A proper host would _deduce_ my fantasy. By now a _proper_ host would have had plans laid, had the staff—"

"Sent away."

"What?"

"For forty-eight hours."

Sherlock frowned, looking around the empty, quiet lawn.

"Hadn't noticed they'd gone, had you?"

"Of course I noticed," Sherlock sniffed, brow furrowing.

"Sherlock," John gave Sherlock a searching look, "just…help a bloke out here. I can't read it the way you do. I don't actually know what you…like."

"You." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Obviously."

John flushed happily, blowing out the breath he hadn't noticed holding. "Okay. Good start. No, that wasn't obvious, but I'm very pleased to hear it."

"How could it not be obvious?" Sherlock tugged his jacket down crisply and jerked his chin up. "I've told you, John. Keep up."

"You haven't told me a thing. Not once."

Sherlock frowned.

"Yeah," John pointed at Sherlock's face. "Mostly it's been a lot of that. Not that, you know, I'm expecting some sort of declaration. Just because I said…what I said. I don't even know if you want—"

"Yes."

"Sorry?"

"Yes, John. Yes. What you said. And…" Sherlock's voice was rough. "I do _want_."

John felt for a moment like the ground fell away from under his feet. He didn't fall, though. He was lifted up on flames. He wanted nothing more than to launch himself into Sherlock's arms, except that Sherlock's arms were now folded over his chest, close and defensive. "So, what's wrong?"

"I don't know the answer to your question," Sherlock snapped. " _What_ I _want_."

"Oh. Er. Have you…never…"

"It's simply been… _some time_ since I've considered the details of such… _scenarios._ "

"I see." John nodded slowly. "In that case, how would you feel about a little…experiment?"

"Experiment?" Sherlock brightened immediately.

 

***

 

"Why are we on the beach?" Sherlock asked.

"Because it's romantic. Yes, shut your mouth, I said romantic. Why did you bring a notebook?"

"Because it's an _experiment_."

"You changed."

"Yes. I'm wearing different clothes. Well-spotted, John."

"You look nice. Er. Colorful."

"You're attempting to compliment me. Flirtation? Hardly necessary. Is this part of the experiment?" Sherlock gave John an assessing look and readied his pen over his notebook.

"Oh, for God's sake." John grabbed Sherlock by the front of his soft purple shirt, pulling him close. "Ready?"

Sherlock's eyes went wide and then dropped to John's mouth. The sun-warmed breeze ruffled the curls that fell across his forehead. "Yes," he whispered.

John pressed his lips to Sherlock's.

They stood there on the beach like that for a long moment, John's fingers curled into the fabric of Sherlock's shirt, toes pushing into the sand, barely even kissing, barely even moving.

And then Sherlock made a _noise_ , so soft and sweet it was almost swallowed up by the sound of the sea, but to John's heart it was as loud as a breaker crashing against a cliff.

John's eyes flew open just as Sherlock's squeezed shut, heads tilted, lips parted, and _then_. Sherlock's arms went around John, and John pressed his whole body into the next kiss, and there was nothing else in the world.

"John," Sherlock breathed when they parted, and then dropped like a stone to sit cross-legged at John's feet. He scrabbled for his notebook and pen where they'd fallen in the sand and began urgently writing.

"Sherlock?"

"Shh!" Sherlock ordered, scribbling away white-knuckled, head bent. He'd filled half a page already.

John bit his lip, still tingling from Sherlock's teeth, and sat down in the sand, too, wriggling his bare feet while he waited patiently. He tried not to feel too smug, or too giddy with anticipation of their next experiments, but he mostly failed.

 

***

 

John was waiting for Sherlock to finish rinsing himself free of sand, rummaging around in the refrigerator for some sort of nibble when he heard movement behind him. "Do you want tea and biscuits," he said, turning, "or we have—"

John made a _fhh_ sound and almost dropped the jar in his hand.

Sherlock, curls damp around his neck, was leaning casually against the door jamb, one leg crossed over the other at the ankle. Completely naked.

"Just tea for me, thanks."

"You," John said. And stared. And thanked every deity that had ever been conceived. "Ng."

Sherlock's smile curled, slow and smug, as he turned and walked away, writing carefully in his notebook. "Interesting."

 

***

 

"This was a bad idea," Sherlock said.

"I don't know," John looked around the deck and tried not to sound doubtful. "We'll just need to use a little extra imagination."

"The ship is too small."

"So we're _big_ pirates."

Sherlock gave him a look.

"Well, it's a pirate ship meant for _kids_ to play in. Of course everything's scaled down. I thought you'd have it taken away after Mrs. Hudson's family left."

Sherlock shrugged and looked away, muttering something in the direction of the skull-and-crossbones topsail.

"Sorry, didn't catch that."

"I _liked_ it," Sherlock huffed, shooting John a defensive glare.

John grinned. "Yeah, well, hence the pirate fantasy."

"It was a stupid idea. It's not going to work."

"Such defeatism. That's not very piratical of you. How do you expect to plunder the high seas with that sort of attitude?"

"I'm not going to plunder anything with _that_ tiny cannon," Sherlock gestured impatiently to the ship's child-friendly weaponry. "Nor am I—"

John hid his mouth behind his hand.

Sherlock sighed. "Oh, shut up."

"Sherlock, you have a lovely cannon."

"Shut. Up."

"Magnificent, I'd go so far as to say."

Sherlock scowled past the flush of color that rose on his face. "I told you this _role-playing_ lark wasn't going to work. I should have known better after saving you from Mycroft was such a disaster—"

"Sherlock, _Mycroft_ was a horned melon on a stick."

"I had to improvise! You're the one going on about _imagination_."

"It was really _large_ melon," John offered. "I was properly intimidated until the stick fell over."

"I'm leaving."

John grabbed Sherlock's arm mid-flounce. "Hang on."

"How am I meant to abduct a sailor who can't stop _giggling_? Role-playing is idiotic. It won't work."

"I'm not _a sailor_. I'm _Captain John Watson_ ," John said, with a snap in his tone and eyes gone flinty. He gave Sherlock a little shove so his back hit the mainmast and stepped in, chest-to-chest. "And you're _my_ prisoner."

"Ah," Sherlock gasped. His mouth opened. Closed.

"That going to work?" John muttered, pressing his nose up underneath Sherlock's jaw, nudging up to bare more of Sherlock's throat.

"Yes," Sherlock breathed. "Yes, I think—"

"That's yes, _sir_."

 

***

 

"Because you were complaining your thighs were sore."

Sherlock's pale skin had a beautiful sheen in the soft light coming through his bedroom window, but John was almost more fascinated by the room itself than by the contours of Sherlock's body.

"This isn't the response I was anticipating," Sherlock said, voice muffled by his pillow. "And it wasn't a complaint. And those aren't my thighs."

John pushed the heels of his hands into Sherlock's upper trapezius muscles, dragged his thumbs down both sides of Sherlock's spine. "It's all connected," he said.

Sherlock's room was done in muted green-patterned wallpaper, soft earthy tones. He had shelves crammed full of books and artifacts that looked like they'd come from all around the world. Framed certificates, maps, scientific charts, photos. Layers of intricacy and depth tucked away in the center of the big white villa, just like Sherlock was tucked away under that pristine white suit. A whole city and desert and sky for John to explore and explore and explore. His fingers mapped the topography of Sherlock's back.

_Almost_ more fascinated by the room.

"Is that what they taught you in medical school?"

"More or less," John grinned, leaning a little more of his weight into his hands on Sherlock's lower back. Sherlock grunted appreciatively. "So if you weren't _complaining_ about your thighs…"

"Which I wasn't."

"You must have been boasting."

"I don't _boast_ , John. I state the facts accurately."

"The facts of your powerful thighs and all their hard work."

"Well, if _you_ want to put it that way." Sherlock's muscles shifted under the slippery press of John's palms. "You are the medical expert, after all."

"And you aren't relaxing."

"This isn't relaxing."

"No?"

"I have an erection."

"Hm. And I have two slicked-up hands. See how that works out?"

Sherlock looked over his shoulder.

John grinned and moved his hands to the backs of Sherlock's thighs.

 

***

 

John shifted his water glass to one side so he had a better view across the table of Sherlock's notebook. He raised his eyebrows. "Waterfall sex? Is that something I'm going to need to look up online?"

Sherlock put his pen down and frowned. "It means sexual activity that takes place under a waterfall."

"Ah, well that's straightforward enough. Handy we have one on the island, then."

"We have two. We could compare the experiences. If we weren't wasting valuable experimentation time eating _sandwiches_ ," Sherlock complained, popping the last bit of sandwich crust into his mouth.

John picked up his glass and grinned into the rim as he took a drink. "So you're making a list."

"Obviously."

"Can I read it?"

"You apparently already are. Upside down."

"And I'd like to point out how impressive that is, given the fact that your writing's barely legible right side up."

"Yes, you're a man of many skills," Sherlock said drily, but he shot a quick, appreciative look at John's hands at the same time.

"True." John touched his tongue to the corner of his mouth and gave Sherlock a cheeky grin. "And happy to demonstrate them all. Even…" he looked back down at the list, "er, does that one say _angry fellatio_?"

Sherlock angled the notebook away. "Stop that. You're going to ruin the surprise."

" _Surprise_ angry fellatio. Even better."

Sherlock slapped the notebook shut.

"Oh, don't be like that, let me see the rest. That's a _long_ list, Sherlock."

"I am endeavoring to be thorough," Sherlock sniffed.

"Let me see," John cajoled. "Maybe I could help narrow it down."

"Why would we narrow it down?"

"Good point," John nodded. "I like the way you think. Prioritize, then."

"Absolutely not. You just want to tease me."

"Is that on the list?" John grinned devilishly. "Because, _yes_ to that. But mostly I want to see what I'm going to be fantasizing about in the shower for the next week or month or year or however long it takes us to get through all these."

"John," Sherlock gave him a cool look and cocked an eyebrow, "given the length of said list, do you actually believe you'll have the energy left to fantasize in the shower?"

"I _like_ the way you think."

Sherlock turned just a little pink at the tips of his ears, clearly pleased with himself. "Here, then." He pushed the notebook over to John.

"Excellent. Come here, read with me." John scooted his chair over beside Sherlock's so they could read side-by-side and dropped a hand onto Sherlock's thigh for good measure. Because he could do that now. He glanced up at Sherlock, who was watching him with a satisfied little smile. Yes, John could absolutely do that now. He smiled back and looked down at Sherlock's list. And blinked. "Oh."

"What?"

"Er, that one," John pointed. "That sounds…good. Quite good. And _that_ one. And this—" He looked up in surprise. " _Really?_ "

Sherlock shrugged. "Problem?"

"No problem whatsoever. I'd like to be clear on that point. In fact, give me the pen."

"What for?"

"I'm going to make a star by that one."

"No." Sherlock drew a neat circle around item twelve. "It's my notebook."

"And you couldn't even make it a star. You're such a control freak."

"Am I, _Captain_ Watson?"

John cleared his throat. "Speaking of which, I think you can cross off number twenty-two, there."

"Ah," Sherlock nodded. "So I can."

"And you're keeping notes on all these?"

"Of course there are notes." Sherlock's gaze flicked to John's face and then quickly away. "But you can't read those."

John leaned to the side so he could push his shoulder against Sherlock's. "Right. Observer effect, is it?"

"That isn't the reason."

"Sherlock," John bit his lip. "All these things. Have you…tried…much of this? Before?"

Sherlock met John's eyes with a clear gaze. "Not all. Some. But the point is I haven't tried them with _you_. My experiences could be different with you. _Should_ be different with you."

"Why _should_?"

"Because it's you. You've made everything different."

"Right," John said a little roughly. He cleared his throat, conscious of the warmth spreading through his chest. "Well. Good thing we're experimenting, then."

"What do you think of number seventeen?"

John looked down at the list again and smiled. "Morning sex? Who doesn't like morning sex? With…er, what's that word? Prostate?"

"Pastries."

John giggled. "That's…sweet."

"Funny."

"Are we actually having sex with the pastries?"

"You're the one who always needs to _eat_. And if we have to bother…I like pastries."

"But not so much you'd have sex with them."

"No. That's just you."

 

***

 

John slid the arch of his foot over Sherlock's ankle. The sheet covering their entwined bodies rustled softly at the shift in position, and John echoed the sound with a contented sigh.

Sherlock twisted slightly in John's arms, reaching toward the bedside table.

"Mm, what are you doing?"

"Phoning Mycroft."

"Er," John said, pushing himself up on one elbow. "Does he really need to know about this?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes as he pressed a few keys on his phone. He was still flushed at the hollow of his throat and his hair was a complete disaster thanks to John's rather desperate attentions.

"Mycroft!" Sherlock held his mobile to his ear as his voice went false-bright. He listened briefly, blinked, and his eyes shifted to John. He cleared his throat. "Yes, well…that…isn't why I've phoned."

"Hi, Mycroft! You make a lovely melon!" John said loudly, since there was clearly no reason for him to bother staying modestly quiet.

Sherlock made a cut-off, sort of choking sound. "Nothing," he assured the phone. "Ignore that."

John grinned into Sherlock's shoulder.

"The _reason_ I'm phoning is," Sherlock went on with clear determination. "Your _chum_ the Equerry…still single? No…I'm not _lonely_ already."

John snorted and gave the top of Sherlock's thigh a squeeze that said _damn right_.

"Put him in touch with a Major James Sholto. Yes, that one."

John stilled on a caught breath. His eyes flew to Sherlock's, questioning.

Sherlock looked back steadily. "Of course I'm sure. Queen and country. Conservative trousers. It will work out well." Sherlock listened for another moment, then his face went bright red. "No I will _not_ tell John that—shut up, Mycroft—I'm ending this call now!" He flung his phone away, then swore, squeezing his hand into a fist. "Bugger! I should have said _and say the same to Lestrade_. Bloody _Mycroft_."

"Why?" John asked quietly.

"Because he's a complete and _utter_ —" Sherlock re-focused his attention on John's face. "Oh. You mean the other thing."

"Yeah. I mean the other thing."

Sherlock shrugged. "Unfinished business. I…owed him a fantasy. He'll be happy. Well…happier."

"That was…nice. A nice thing. Thank you."

"I didn't do it for you," Sherlock said primly, folding his hands on top of the sheet. His eyes shifted to the side, looking at John. "But you make me understand."

John blinked a sort of sudden brightness out of his eyes, took a deep breath, and said, "Sherlock, I love you with the force of the entire sun." He knew he sounded a right soggy sap but he was _bursting_ and, really, he could barely speak at all so how could he be expected to form a less embarrassing sentence?

"Yes," Sherlock's grin was wicked and shy at the same time. "I felt it."

"Give me another half hour or so and, by God, you're going to feel it again. You can write that in your notes right now."

 

***

 

"His name is Angelo."

John slipped around behind Sherlock, who was just finishing his morning shave in the steamed mirror, and rested his hand briefly on Sherlock's towel-slung hip in passing. "Fantasy?"

"He thinks it's to impress his aging, professionally larcenous father by pulling off a _heist_."

"Actual fantasy?"

"He wants to own a restaurant."

John snorted a laugh. "How's that going to come about?"

Sherlock emerged from the bathroom and tossed his damp towel at John, who snatched it out of the air with an appreciative leer at Sherlock's naked form. "He's going to _rob_ a restaurant."

"Have you seen my—"

"They're under the duvet."

"Ah!" John retrieved his socks and sat on the edge of the bed to pull them on. "Okay, then what happens?"

Sherlock flashed John a smug grin as he slipped into his white suit trousers. "The headwaiter will be instructed to mistake him for the new chef, arriving just in time to save the evening's service. Angelo will make the obvious choice."

"Is he a _good_ chef?" John reached for his tie. "Should we make reservations?"

Sherlock stepped behind John's back, nuzzled his nose against John's ear, and murmured, "Are you suggesting a date?"

"That wasn't even on the list, was it?" John turned into Sherlock's arms, pressed up for a kiss. "Oversight."

Sherlock's arms tightened around him. "I wish we'd had more time," he pouted. "Two days, not enough. I haven't even finished compiling my notes."

"Don't pretend you aren't excited for the next client." John looped his tie around his neck. "And we'll have plenty of time. Always."

Sherlock made a little grumbling sound.

John grinned. "Now that the staff's back, do you want to nip by the cafe for breakfast on the way?"

"Just a coffee," Sherlock sighed sadly as he shrugged into his jacket, but it was obvious theatricality. He _was_ excited for the new client—he always was at the start of a new fantasy, and John always loved seeing it.

"Fine, but brunch after." John couldn't resist pulling Sherlock in for one more kiss, lingering longer this time, putting a breath of promise into it. "You can have pastries."

They walked to the lagoon hand-in-hand.

Just as the little yellow and white plane motored up to the dock, Sherlock drew in a sharp breath. He turned to John, his morning sky eyes suddenly urgent. "It's this."

"What's this?"

" _This_ ," Sherlock said. He grasped John by the shoulders. "This morning. All of it, John. This is my fantasy. The answer to your question."

"Oh." John's smile spread slowly, almost painfully, like he felt his chest swelling at the same time. Like it was taking in the sunlight and the sweet breeze across the grass and the gentle rhythm of waves caressing the shore and it was never going to let any of it back out again. "Mine, too," he said huskily.

The plane's door banged open and a heavyset man with a ponytail and a full beard stepped out, looking uneasy.

"May I?" John nodded in the man's direction and grinned.

Sherlock took one of John's hands in his. "We _are_ partners. Are we not?"

John raised his other hand and, beaming irrepressibly, called out, "Welcome to Fantasy Island!"

 

***

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So many things I wish I'd been able to work in. So many of you had such good guest suggestions! And Irene Adler, by the way, operates the Love Boat. :)
> 
> Thank you for reading/watching!


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